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JEWISH CHILDREN 




' ־ ״יי״ * r ־ י ־ 

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JEWISH CHILDREN 

FROM THE YIDDISH OF 

“ SHALOM ALEICHEM” 

ו י י י ע ו c* # 


AUTHORISED VERSION 


BY 

HANNAH BERMAN 



NEW YORK 

ALFRED A. KNOPF 

MCMXX 





Printed in Great Britain 



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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

1 

12 

26 

32 

45 

54 

67 

76 

87 

98 

106 

120 

133 

146 

157 

184 

193 

218 

251 



Song 


A Page from the “ Song of Songs ” 
Passover in a Village. An Idyll . 
Elijah the Prophet . 

Getzel 

A Lost “L’ag Beomer ” 

Murderers 
Three Little Heads 
Greens for “ Shevuous ’ 

Another Page from ' , The Song of 
A Pity for the Living 
The Tabernacle 
The Dead Citron 


Isshur the Beadle 
Boaz the Teacher 
The Spinning -Top 
Esther 

The Pocket-Knife 
On the Fiddle , 
This Night 


ו 


JEWISH CHILDREN 

A PAGE FROM THE “SONG OF SONGS” 

Busie is a name ; it is the short for Esther- 
Liba : Libusa : Busie. She is a year older than I, 
perhaps two years. And both of us together are 
no more than twenty years old. Now, if you please, 
sit down and think it out for yourself. How old 
am I, and how old is she ? But, it is no matter. 
I will rather tell you her history in a few words. 

My older brother, Benny lived in a village. He 
had a mill. He could shoot with a gun, ride on a 
horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he was 
bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him 
they said the proverb had been invented : “All 
good swimmers are drowned.” He left after him 
the mill, two horses, a young widow, and one child. 
The mill was neglected ; the horses were sold ; the 
young widow married again, and went away, some- 
where, far ; and the child was brought to us. 

The child was Busie. 

That my father loves Busie as if she were his own 
child ; and that my mother frets over her as if she 

B 


2 JEWISH CHILDREN 

were an only daughter, is readily understood. They 
look upon her as their comfort in their great sorrow. 
And I ? Why is it that when I come from ‘ cheder ,’ 
and do not find Busie I cannot eat ? And when 
Busie comes in, there shines a light in every corner. 
When Busie talks to me, I drop my eyes. And when 
she laughs at me I weep. And when she. . . . 

I waited long for the dear, good Feast of 
Passover. I would be free then. I ׳would play 
with Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down 
the hill to the river, .and show her the ducks in the 
water. When I tell her, she does not believe me. 
She laughs. She never believes me. That is, she 
says nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be 
laughed at. She does not believe that I can climb 
to the highest tree, if I like. She does not believe 
that I can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. 
When the Passover comes — the dear good Passover 
— and we can go out into the free, open air, away 
from my father and mother, I shall show her such 
tricks that she will go wild. 

The dear good Passover has come. 

They dress us both in kingly clothes. Every- 
thing we wear shines and sparkles and glitters. I 
look at Busie, and I think of the “ Song of 
Songs ” that I learnt for the Passover, verse by 
verse : 

“ Behold, thou art fair, my love ; behold, thou 


A PAGE FROM THE “ SONG OF SONGS 3 ״ 

art fair ; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks : 
thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from 
mount Gilead. 

Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that, are 
even shorn, which come up from the washing ; 
whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren 
among them. 

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy 
speech is comely : thy temples are like a piece of 
pomegranate within thy locks.” 

Tell me, please, why is it that when one looks 
at Busie one is reminded of the “ Song of Songs ” ? 
And when one reads the 44 Song of Songs,” Busie 
rises to one’s mind ? 

A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm. 

44 Shall we go ? ” asks Busie. And I am all afire. 
My mother does not spare the nuts. She fills our 
pockets. But she makes us promise that we will 
not crack a single one before the 4 Seder. r We 
may play with them as much as we like. We run 
off. The nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful and 
fine out of doors. The sun is already high in the 
heavens, and is looking down on the other side of 
the town. Everything is broad and comfortable 
and soft and free, around and about. In places, 
on the hill the other side of the synagogue, one sees 
a little blade of grass, fresh and green and living. 
Screaming and fluttering their wings, there fly past 
us, over our heads, a swarm of young swallows. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


4 


And again I am reminded of the “ Song of Songs ” 
I learnt at school : 

“ The flowers appear on the earth ; the time of 
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the 
turtle is heard in our land.” 

I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, 
and can rise up and fly away. 

A curious noise comes from the town, a roaring, 
a rushing, a tumult. In a moment the face of the 
world is changed for me. Our farm is a courtyard, 
our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a 
princess. The logs of wood that lie at our door are 
the cedars and firs of the “ Song of Songs.” The 
cat that is warming herself in the sun near the 
door is a roe, or a young hart ; and the hill on the 
other side of the synagogue is the mountain of 
Lebanon. The women and girls who are washing 
and scrubbing and making everything clean for the 
Passover are the daughters of Jerusalem. 

Everything, everything is from the “ Song of 
Songs.” 

I walk about with my hands in my pockets. The 
nuts shake and rattle. Busie walks beside me, step 
by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried along. 
I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. 
I let myself go. Busie follows me. I jump 
from one log of wood to the other. Busie jumps 
after me. I am up; she is up. I am down; she is 
down. Who will tire first ? “ How long is this to 


A PAGE FROM THE “ SONG OF SONGS ” 5 


last ? ’* asks Busie. And I answer her in the words 
of the 44 Song of Songs ” : 44 ‘ Until the day break, 
and the shadows flee away.’ Ba ! Ba ! Ba ! 
You are tired, and I am not.” 

I am glad that Busie does not know what I 
know. And I am sorry for her. My heart aches 
for her. I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her 
nature. She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she 
sits down in a corner and weeps silently. My 
mother comforts her, and my father showers 
kisses on her. But, it is useless. Busie weeps 
until she is exhausted. For whom ? For her 
father who died so young ? Or for her mother who 
married again and went off without a good-bye ? 
Ah, her mother ! When one speaks of her mother 
to her, she turns all colours. She does not believe 
in her mother. She does not say an unkind word 
of her, but she does not believe in her. Of that I 
am sure. I cannot bear to see Busie weeping. I 
sit down beside her, and try to distract her thoughts 
from herself. 

I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, 
and say to her : 

44 Guess what I can do if I like.” 

“ What can you do ? ” 

44 If I like, all your nuts will belong to me.” 

44 Will you win them off me ? ” 

44 We shall not even begin to play.” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


6 


“ Then you will take them from me ? ” 

“No, they will come to me of themselves.” 

She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me — her 
beautiful, blue, “Song of Songs ” eyes. I say to her: 

“ You think I am jesting. Little fool, I 
know certain magic words.” 

She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I 
explain myself to her, like a great man, a hero : 

“We boys know everything. There is a boy at 
our school. Sheika the blind one, we call him. 
He is blind of one eye. He knows everything in 
the world, even *Kaballa.' Do you know what 
4 Kaballa ' is ? ” 

“ No. How am I to know ? ” 

I am in the seventh heaven because I can give 
her a lecture on 6 Kaballa.' 

“ 4 Kaballa ' little fool, is a thing that is useful. 
By means of 4 Kaballa ' I can make myself invisible 
to you, whilst I can see you. By means of 4 Kaballa ' 
I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a 
wall. By means of 4 Kaballa ' I can manage that we 
two shall rise up into the clouds, and even higher 
than the clouds.” 

To rise up in the air with Busie, by means of 
4 Kaballa,' into the clouds, and higher than the 
clouds, and fly with her far, far over the ocean— 
that was one of my best dreams. There, on the 
other side of the ocean, live the dwarfs who are 
descended from the giants of King David’s time. 


A PAGE FROM THE “ SONG OF SONGS 7 ״ 

The dwarfs are, in reality, good-natured folks. 
They live on sweets and the milk of almonds, and 
play all day on little flutes, and dance all together 
in a ring, romping about. They are afraid of 
nothing, and are fond of strangers. When a man 
comes to them from our world, they give him 
plenty to eat and drink, dress him in the finest 
garments, and load him with gold and silver 
ornaments. Before he leaves, they fill his pockets 
with diamonds and rubies which are to be found 
in their streets like mud in ours. 

“ Like mud in the streets ? Well ! ” said Busie 
to me when I had told her all about the dwarfs. 

“ Do you not believe it ? ” 

“ Do you believe it ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Where did you hear it ? ” 

“ Where ? At school.” 

״ Ah! At school.” 

The sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky 
with red gold. The gold was reflected in Busie’s 
eyes. They were bathed in gold. 

I want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika’s 
tricks which I can imitate by means of I * * 4 Kaballa 
But they do not surprise her. On the contrary, I 

think they amuse her. Why else does she show me 
her pearl-white teeth ? I am a little annoyed, 

and I say to her : 

“ Maybe you do not believe me ? ” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


8 


Busie laughs. 

“ Maybe you think I am boasting ? Or that 
I am inventing lies out of my own head ? ” 

Busie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must 
show her. I know how. I say to her : 

“ The thing is that you do not know what 
4 Kaballa ’ means. If you knew what £ Kaballa 5 was 
you would not laugh. By means of 4 Kaballa if I 
like, I can bring your mother here. Yes, yes ! 
And if you beg hard of me, I will bring her this very 
night, riding on a stick.״ 

All at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles 
on her beautiful face. And I imagine that the 
sun has disappeared. No more sun, no more day ! 
I am afraid I went a little too far. I had no right 
to pain her — to speak of her mother. I am sorry 
for the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I must 
ask her forgiveness. I creep close to her. She 
turns away from me. I try to take her hand. I 
wish to say to her, in the words of the “ Song of 
Songs ” : “ 4 Return, return, O Shulamite ! 5 Busie ! ” 
Suddenly a voice called from the house : 

“ Shemak ! Shemak 1 ” 

I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go 
to the synagogue with father. 

To go to the synagogue with one’s father on the 
Passover eve — is there in the world a greater 
pleasure than that ? What is it worth to be 
dressed in new clothes from head to foot, and to 


9 


A PAGE FROM THE “ SONG OF SONGS ״ 


show off before one’s friends ? Then the prayers 
themselves — the first Festival evening prayer and 
blessing. Ah, how many luxuries has the good 
God prepared for his Jewish children. 

“ Shemak 1 Shemak 1 ” 

My mother has no time. 

“ I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I 
only want to say a word to Busie — no more than 
a word.” 

I confess to Busie that I told her lies. One 
cannot make people fly by means of ‘ Kaballa.’ 
One may fly one’s self. And I will show her, after 
the Festival, how I can fly. I will rise from this 
same spot on the logs, before her eyes, and in a 
moment reach the other side of the clouds. From 
there, I will turn a little to the right. You see, 
there all things end, and one comes upon the shore 
of the frozen ocean. 

Busie listens attentively. The sun is sending 
down its last rays, and is kissing the earth. 

46 What is the frozen sea ? ” asks Busie. 

44 You don’t know what the frozen sea is ? It 
is a sea whose waters are thick as liver and salt as 
brine. No ships can ride on it. When people fall 
into it, they can never get out again.” 

Busie looks at me with big eyes. 

44 Why should you go there ? ” 

44 Am I going, little fool ? I fly over it like 
an eagle. In a few minutes I shall be over the dry 


10 JEWISH CHILDREN 

land and at the twelve mountains that spit fire. 
At the twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come 
down and walk seven miles, until I come to a thick 
forest. I shall go in and out of the trees, until I 
come to a little stream. I shall swim across the 
water, and count seven times seven. A little old 
man with a long beard appears before me, and 
says to me : ‘ What is your request ? ’ I answer : 

4 Bring me the queen’s daughter.’ ” 

44 What queen’s daughter ? ” asks Busie. And 
I imagine she is frightened. 

44 The queen’s daughter is the princess who was 
snatched away from under the wedding־ canopy 
and bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal 
seven years ago.” 

44 What has that to do with you ? ” 

44 What do you mean by asking what it has to 
do with me ? I must go and set her free.” 

44 You must set her free ? ” 

44 Who else ? ” 

44 You need not fly so far. Take my advice, 
you need not.” 

• • . . . 

Busie takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little 
white hand is cold. I look into her eyes, and I see 
in them the reflection of the red gold sun that is 
bidding farewell to the day — the first, bright, warm 
Passover day. The day dies by degrees. The 
sun goes out like a candle. The noises of the day 
are hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the 


A PAGE FROM THE “ SONG OF SONGS 11 ״ 


street. In the little windows shine the lights of 
the festival candles that have just been lit. A 
curious, a holy stillness wraps us round, Busie and 
myself. We feel that our lives are fast merging 
in the solemn stillness of the festive evening. 

“ Shemak 1 Shemak ! ” 

My mother calls me for the third time to go 
with my father to the synagogue. Do I not know 
myself that I must go to prayers ? I will sit here 
another minute — one minute, no more. Busie hears 
my mother calling me. She tears her hand from 
mine, gets up, and drives me off. 

“ Shemak, you are called — you. Go, go ! It 
is time. Go, go ! ” 

I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is 
extinguished. Its gold beams have turned to 
blood. A little wind blows — a soft, cold wind. 
Busie tells me to go. I throw a last glance at her. 
She is not the same Busie. In my eyes she is 
different, on this bewitching evening. The en- 
chanted princess runs in my head. But Busie does 
not leave me time to think. She drives me off. 
I go. I turn round to look at the enchanted 
princess who is completely merged into the beautiful 
Passover evening. I stand like one bewitched. 
She points to me to go. And I imagine I hear her 
saying to me, in the words of the “ Song of Songs ” : 

“ Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a 
roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.” 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 

AN IDYLL 

Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world 
turn upside down. The old oak, which has been 
standing since the creation of the world, and whose 
roots reach to God-knows-where — what does he 
care for winds ? What are storms to him ? 

The old tree is not a symbol — it is a living being, 
a man whose name is Nachman Veribivker of 
Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a 
giant. The townspeople are envious of his 
strength, and make fun of him־ “ Peace be unto 
you. How is a Jew in health ? ” Nachman knows 
he is being made fun of. He bends his shoulders 
so as to look more Jewish. But, it is useless. He 
is too big. 

Nachman has lived in the village a long time. 
“ Our ‘ Lachman,’ ” the peasants call him. They 
look upon him as a good man, with brains. They 
like to have a chat with him. They follow his advice. 
“ What are we to do about bread ? ” ‘ Lachman ’ 

has an almanack, and he knows whether bread 
will be cheap or dear this year. He goes to the 
town, and so knows what is doing in the world. 

It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without 
12 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 13 

Nachman. Not only was his father, Feitel, born 
in Veribivka, but his grandfather, Ary a. He was a 
clever Jew, and a wit. He used to say that the 
village was called Veribivka because Arya Veri- 
bivker lived in it, because, before Veribivka was 
Veribivka, he, Arya Veribivker was already Arya 
Veribivker. That’s what his grandfather used to 
say. The Jews of those times ! 

And do you think Arya Veribivker said this for 
no reason ? Arya was not an ordinary man who 
made jokes without reason. He meant that the 
catastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. 
At that time they already talked of driving the 
Jews out of villages. And not only talked but 
drove them out. All the Jews were driven out, 
excepting Arya Veribivker. It may be that even 
the governor of the district could do nothing, 
because Arya Veribivker proved that according to 
the law, he could not be driven out. The Jews of 
those times ! 

Certainly, if one has inherited such a privilege, 
and is independent, one can laugh at the whole 
world. What did our Nachman Veribivker care 
about uprisings, the limitations of the Pale, or 
Circulars ? What did Nachman care about the 
wicked Gentile Kuratchka and the papers that he 
brought from the court ? Kuratchka was a short 
peasant with short fingers. He wore a smock and 
high boots, and a silver chain and a watch like a 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


14 


gentleman. He was a clerk of the court. And he 
read all the papers which abused and vilified the 
Jews. 

Personally, Kuratchka was not a bad sort. 
He was a neighbour of Nachman and pretended to 
be a friend. When Kuratchka had the toothache, 
Nachman gave him a lotion. When Kuratchka’s 
wife was brought to bed‘ of a child, Nachman’s wife 
nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows 
why, Kuratchka had been reading the anti-semitic 
papers, and he was an altered man. “ Esau began 
to speak in him.” He was always bringing home 
news of new governors, new circulars from the 
minister, and new edicts against Jews. Each time, 
Nachman’s heart was torn. But, he did not let the 
Gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile, 
and held out the palm of his hand, as if to say, 
“ When hair grows here.” 

Let governors change. Let ministers write 
circulars. What concern is it of Nachman 
Veribivker of Veribivka ? 

Nachman lived comfortably. That is, not as 
comfortably as his grandfather Arya had lived. 
Those were different times. One might almost say 
that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He 
had the inn, the store, a mill, a granary. He made 
money with spoons and plates, as they say. But, 
that was long ago. To-day, all these things are 
gone. No more inn; no more store; no more 
granary. The question is why, in that case, does 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 15 

Nachman live in the village ? Where then should 
he live ? In the earth ? Just let him sell his 
house, and he will be Nachman Veribivker no more. 
He will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he 
has at least a corner of his own, a house to live in, 
and a garden. His wife and daughters cultivate 
the garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have 
greens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole 
winter, until long after the Passover. But, one 
cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said that one 
wants bread with potatoes. And when there’s no 
bread, a Jew takes his stick, and goes through the 
village in search of business. He never comes home 
empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys — 
some old iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or 
else a hide. The hide is stretched and dried, and 
is taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the 
tanner. And on all these one either earns or loses 
money. 

Abraham-Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish 
nose and fingers as black as ink, laughs at Nachman, 
because he is so coarsened through living with 
Gentiles that he even speaks like them. 

Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He 
grows coarser each year. Oh, if his grandfather 
Reb Ary a — peace be unto him ! could see his grand- 
son. He had been a practical man, but had also 
been a scholar. He knew whole passages of the 
Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews of 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


16 


those times ! And what does he, Nachman, know ? 
He can only just say his prayers. It’s well he 
knows that much. His children will know even 
less. When he looks at his children, how they grow 
to the ceiling, broad and tall like himself, and can 
neither read nor write, his heart grows heavy. 
More than all, his heart aches for his youngest child, 
who is called Feitel, after his father. He was a 
clever child, this Feitel. He was smaller in build, 
more refined, more Jewish than the others. And 
he had brains. He was shown the Hebrew 
alphabet once, in a prayer-book, and he never again 
confused one letter with the other. Such a fine 
child to grow up in a village amongst calves and 
pigs ! He plays with Kuratchka’s son, Fedoka. 
He rides on the one stick with him. They both 
chase the one cat. They both dig the same hole. 
They do together everything children can do. 
Nachman is sorry to see his child playing with the 
Gentile child. It withers him, as if he were a tree 
that had been stricken by lightning. 

Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant 
face and a dimpled chin, and flaxen hair. He loves 
Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All the 
winter each child slept on his father’s stove. 
They went to the window and longed for one another. 
They seldom met. But now the long angry 
winter is over. The black earth throws off her cold 
white mantle. The sun shines ; and the wind 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 17 

blows. A little blade of grass peeps out. At the 
foot of the hill the little river murmurs. The 
calf inhales the soft air through distended nostrils. 
The cock closes one eye, and is lost in meditation. 
Everything around and about has come to life 
again. Everything rejoices. It is the Passover 
eve. Neither Feitel nor Fedoka can be kept 
indoors. They rush out into God’s world which 
has opened up for them both. They take each 
other’s hands, and fly down the hill that smiles at 
them — 44 Come here, children ! ” They leap to- 
wards the sun that greets them and calls them : 
46 Come, children ! ” When they are tired of 
running, they sit down on God’s earth that knows 
no Jew and no Gentile, but whispers invitingly : 
44 Children, come to me, to me.” 

They have much to tell each other, not having 
met throughout the whole winter. Feitel boasts 
that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka 
boasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it 
is the eve of Passover. They have 4 matzos ' 
for the whole festival and wine. 44 Do you re- 
member, Fedoka, I gave you a 4 matzo ' last year ? ” 
44 i Matzo,'" repeats Fedoka. A smile overspreads 
his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the 
taste of the 4 matzo' 44 Would you like to have 
some 4 matzo' now, fresh 4 matzo Is it necessary 
to ask such a question ? 44 Then come with me,” 

says Feitel, pointing up the hill which smiled to them 

c 


18 JEWISH CHILDREN 

invitingly. They climbed the hill. They gazed 
at the warm sun through their fingers. They threw 
themselves on the damp earth which smelled so 
fresh. Feitel drew out from under his blouse a 
whole fresh, white 4 matzo ,’ covered with holes on 
both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. 
Feitel broke the 4 matzo’ in halves, and gave one half 
to his friend. 44 What do you say to the 4 matzo ,’ 
Fedoka ? ” What could Fedoka say when his mouth 
was stuffed with 4 matzo ’ that crackled between 
his teeth, and melted under his tongue like snow ? 
One minute, and there was no more 4 matzo’ “All 
gone ? ” Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Feitel’s 
blouse as a cat looks at butter. 44 Want more ? ” 
asked Feitel, looking at Fedoka through his sharp 
black eyes. What a question ! 44 Then w r ait a 

while, 5 ’ said Feitel. 44 Next year you’ll get more.” 
They both laughed at the joke. And without a 
word, as if they had already arranged it, they 
threw themselves on the ground, and rolled down 
the hill like balls, quickly, quickly downwards. 

i • י • י 

At the bottom of the hill they stood up, and 
looked at the murmuring river that ran away to 
the left. They turned to the right, going further 
and further over the broad fields that were not yet 
green in all places, but showed signs of being green 
soon — that did not yet smell of grass, but would 
smell of grass soon. They walked and walked in 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 19 

silence, bewitched by the loveliness of the earth, 
under the bright, smiling sun. They did not walk, 
but swim. They did not swim, but fly. They flew 
like birds that sweep in the soft air of the lovely 
world which the Lord has created for all living things. 
Hush ! They are at the windmill which belongs to 
the village elder. Once it belonged to Nachman 
Veribivker. Now it belongs to the village elder 
whose name is Opanas — a cunning Gentile with one 
ear-ring, who owns a ‘ samovar. ’ Opanas is a rich 
Epicurean. Along with the mill he has a store — 
the same store which once belonged to Nachman 
Veribivker. He took both the mill and the store 
from the Jew by cunning. 

The mill went round in its season, but this day 
it was still. There was no wind. A curious 
Passover eve without winds. That the mill was not 
working was so much the better for Feitel and 
Fedoka. They could see the mill itself. And there 
was much to see in the mill. But, to them the mill was 
not so interesting as the sails, and the wheel which 
turns them whichever way the wind blows. They 
sat down near the mill, and talked. It was one of 
those conversations which have no beginning and 
no end. Feitel told stories of the town to which 
his father had once taken him. He was at the 
fair. He saw shops. Not a single shop as in 
Veribivka, but a lot of shops. And in the evening 
his father took him to the synagogue. His father 
had 4 Yahrzeit ’ after his father. 44 That means 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


20 


after my grandfather,” explained Feitel. “ Do 
you understand, or do you not ? ” 

Fedoka might have understood, but he was not 
listening. He interrupted with a story that had 
nothing to do with what Feitel was talking about. 
He told Feitel that last year he saw a bird’s nest in 
a high tree. He tried to reach it, but could not. 
He tried to knock it down with a stick, but could 
not. He threw stones at the nest, until he brought 
down two tiny, bleeding fledglings. 

“You killed them ? ” asked Feitel, fearfully, 
and made a wry face. 

“ Little ones,” replied Fedoka. 

“ But, they were dead ? ” 

“ Without feathers, yellow beaks, little fat 
bellies.” 

“ But killed, but killed ! ” 

It was rather late when Feitel and Fedoka saw 
by the sun in the heavens that it was time to go 
home. Feitel had forgotten that it was the 
Passover eve. He remembered then that his 
mother had to wash him, and dress him in his new 
trousers. He jumped up and flew home, Fedoka 
after him. They both flew home, gladly and 
joyfully. And in order that one should not be 
home before the other, they held hands, flying like 
arrows from bows. When they got to the village, 
this was the scene which confronted them : — 

Nacham Veribivker’s house was surrounded by 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 21 

peasants, men and women, boys and girls. The 
clerk, Kuratchka, and Opanas the village elder 
and his wife, and the magistrate and the policeman 
— all were there, talking and shouting together. 
Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the 
crowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman 
was bent low and was wiping the perspiration from 
his face with both hands. By his side stood his 
older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly, 
the whole picture changed. Some one pointed to 
the two children. The whole crowd, including the 
village elder and the magistrate, the policeman and 
the clerk, stood still, like petrified. Only Nachman 
looked at the people, straightened out his back, and 
laughed. His wife threw out her hands and began 
to weep. 

The village elder and the clerk and the magis- 
trate and their wives pounced on the children. 

“ Where were you, you so-and-so ? ” 

14 Where were we ? We were down by the 
mill.” 

The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got 
punished without knowing why. 

Feitel’s father flogged him with his cap. “ A 
boy should know.” What should a boy know ? 
Out of pity his mother took him from his father’s 
hands. She gave him a few smacks on her own 
account, and at once washed him and dressed him 
in his new trousers — the only new garment he had 


22 JEWISH CHILDREN 

for the Passover. She sighed. Why ? After- 
wards, he heard his father saying to his mother : 
“ May the Lord help us to get over this Festival 
in peace. The Passover ought to have gone 
before it came.” Feitel could not understand why 
the Passover should have gone before it came. 
He worried himself about this. He did not under- 
stand why his father had flogged him, and his 
mother smacked him. He did not understand 
what sort of a Passover eve it was this day in the 
world. 

If Feitel’s Jewish brains could not solve the 
problems, certainly Fedoka’s peasant brains could 
not. First of all his mother took hold of him by 
the flaxen hair, and pulled it. Then she gave him 
a few good smacks in the face. These he accepted 
like a philosopher. He was used to them. And 
he heard his mother talking with the peasants. 
They told curious tales of a child that the Jews of 
the town had enticed on the Passover eve, hidden 
in a cellar a day and a night, and were about to 
make away with, when his cries were heard by 
passers-by. They rescued him. He had marks 
on his body — four marks, placed like a cross. 

A cunning peasant-woman with a red face told 
this tale. And the other women shook their shawl- 
covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka 
could not understand why the women looked at 
him when they were talking. And what had the 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 23 

tale to do with him and Feitel ? Why had his 
mother pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears ? 
He did not care about these. He was used to 
them. He only wanted to know why he had had 
such a good share that day. 

“ Well ? ” Feitel heard his father remark to 
his mother immediately after the Festival. His 
face was shining as if the greatest good fortune 
had befallen him. 44 Well ? You fretted yourself 
to death. You were afraid. A woman remains a 
woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, 
and nothing.” 

44 Thank God,” replied his mother. And Feitel 
could not understand what his mother had feared. 
And why were they glad that the Passover was 
gone ? Would it not have been better if the 
Passover had been longer and longer ? 

Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could 
not contain himself, but told him everything — 
how they had prayed, and how they had eaten. 
Oh, how they had eaten ! He told him how nice all 
the Passover dishes were, and how sweet the wine. 
Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes on 
Feitel’s blouse. He was still thinking of 4 matzo .’ 
Suddenly there was a scream, and a cry in a high- 
pitched soprano : 

44 Fedoka, Fedoka ! ” 

It was his mother calling him in for supper. 
Rut, Fedoka did not hurry. He thought she would 


24 JEWISH CHILDREN 

not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not 
been at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Pass- 
over. After the Passover there was no need to 
be afraid of the Jews. He stretched himself on 
the grass, on his stomach, propping up his white 
head with his hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, 
his black head propped up by his hands. The sky 
is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans 
one and plays with one’s hair. The little calf 
stands close by. The cock is also near, with his 
wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are 
close together. The children talk and talk and 
talk, and cannot finish talking. 

Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in 
the morning he took his stick, and let himself go 
over the village, in search of business. He stopped 
at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, 
calling each one by name, and talked with them 
on every subject in the world. But, he avoided 
all reference to the Passover incident, and never 
even hinted at his fears of the Passover. Before 
going away, he said : “ Perhaps, friend, you have 
something you would like to sell ? ” “ Nothing, 

6 Lachman,’ nothing.” “ Old iron, rags, an old 
sack, or a hide ? ” 46 Do not be offended, ‘ Lach- 

man,’ there is nothing. Bad times ! ” “ Bad times ? 
You drank everything, maybe. Such a festival ! ” 
“ Who drank ? What drank ? Bad times.” 

The Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed. 


25 


PASSOVER IN A VILLAGE 


They talked of different things. Nachman would 
not have the other know that he came only on 
business. He left that Gentile, and went to another, 
to a third, until he came upon something. He 
would not return home empty-handed. 

Nachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring, 
tramped home, thinking only of one problem — 
how much he was going to gain or lose that day. 
He has forgotten the Passover eve incident. He 
has forgotten the fears of the Passover. The 
clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars 
have gone clean out of the Jew’s head. 

Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the 
world turn upside down. The old oak which has 
been standing since the creation of the world, and 
whose roots reach to God-knows-where — what does 
he care for winds ? What are storms to him ? 


ELIJAH THE PROPHET 

It is not good to be an only son, to be fretted over 
by father and mother — to be the only one left out 
of seven. Don’t stand here. Don’t go there. Don’t 
drink that. Don’t eat the other. Cover up your 
throat. Hide your hands. Ah, it is not good — not 
good at all to be an only son, and a rich man’s son 
into the bargain. My father is a money changer. 
He goes about amongst the shopkeepers with a bag 
of money, changing copper for silver, and silver 
for copper. That is why his fingers are always 
black, and his nails broken. He works very hard. 
Each day, when he comes home, he is tired and 
broken down. “ I have no feet,” he complains to 
mother. “ I have no feet, not even the sign of a 
foot.” No feet ? It may be. But for that again 
he has a fine business. That’s what the people say. 
And they envy us that we have a good business. 
Mother is satisfied. So am I. “ We shall have a 
Passover this year, may all the children of Israel 
have the like, Father in Heaven ! ” 

That’s what my mother said, thanking God for 
the good Passover. And I also was thankful. 
But shall we ever live to see it — this same Pass- 
over ? 


26 


ELIJAH THE PROPHET 27 

Passover has come at last — the dear sweet 
Passover. I was dressed as befitted the son of a 
man of wealth — like a young prince. But what was 
the consequence ? I was not allowed to play, or 
run about, lest I caught cold. I must not play with 
poor children. I was a wealthy man’s boy. Such 
nice clothes, and I had no one to show them off 
before. I had a pocketful of nuts, and no one to 
play with. 

It is not good to be an only child, and fretted 
over — the only one left out of seven, and a wealthy 
man’s son into the bargain. 

My father put on his best clothes, and went off 
to the synagogue. Said my mother to me : 44 Do 
you know what ? Lie down and have a sleep. 
You will then be able to sit up at the 4 Seder ’ and 
ask the 4 four questions ’ ! ” Was I mad ? Would 
I go asleep before the 4 Seder 9 ? 

“ Remember, you must not sleep at the 4 Seder. 9 
If you do, Elijah the Prophet will come with a bag 
on his shoulders. On the two first nights of Pass- 
over, Elijah the Prophet goes about looking for those 
who have fallen asleep at the 4 Seder, 9 and takes 
them away in his bag.” . . . Ha 1 Ha ! Will I 
fall asleep at the 4 Seder ’ ? I ? Not even if it were 
to last the whole night through, or even to broad 
daylight. 44 What happened last year, mother ? ” 
44 Last year you fell asleep, soon after the first 
blessing.” 44 Why did Elijah the Prophet not come 
then with his bag ? ” 44 Then you were very small, 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


28 


now you are big. To-night you must ask father 
the 4 four questions.’ To-night you must say with 
father — 4 Slaves were we.’ To-night, you must 
eat with us fish and soup and 4 Matzo ’-balls. Hush, 
here is father, back from the synagogue.” 

44 Good 4 Yom-tov ’ / ” 

44 Good 4 Yom-tov ’ / ” 

Thank God, father made the blessing over wine. 
I, too. Father drank the cup full of wine. So did 
I, a cup full, to the very dregs. 44 See, to the dregs,” 
said mother to father. To me she said : 44 A full 
cup of wine ! You will drop off to sleep.” Ha ! Ha ! 
will I fall asleep ? Not even if we are to sit up all 
the night, or even to broad daylight. 44 Well,” 
said my father, 44 how are you going to ask the 
4 four questions ’ ? How will you recite 4 Haggadah ’ ? 
How will you sing with me — 4 Slaves were we ’ ? ” 
My mother never took her eyes off me. She 
smiled and said : 44 You will fall asleep — fast 

asleep.” 44 Oh, mother, mother, if you had eigh- 
teen heads, you would surely fall asleep, if some one 
sat opposite you, and sang in your ears : 44 Fall 
asleep, fall asleep ! ” 

Of course I fell asleep. 

I fell asleep, and dreamt that my father was 
already saying : 44 Pour out thy wrath.” My 

mother herself got up from the table, and went to 
open the door to welcome Elijah the Prophet. It 
would be a fine thing if Elijah the Prophet did come, 
as my mother had said, with a bag on his shoulders, 


ELIJAH THE PROPHET 29 

and if he said to me : 44 Come, boy.” And who 
else would be to blame for this but my mother, 
with her 44 fall asleep, fall asleep.” And as I was 
thinking these thoughts, I heard the creaking of 
the door. My father stood up and cried : 44 Blessed 
art thou who comest in the name of the Eternal.” 
I looked towards the door. Yes, it was he. He 
came in so slowly and so softly that one scarcely 
heard him. He was a handsome man, Elijah the 
Prophet — an -old man with a long grizzled beard 
reaching to his knees. His face was yellow and 
wrinkled, but it was handsome and kindly without 
end. And his eyes ! Oh, what eyes ! Kind, soft, 
joyous, loving, faithful eyes. He was bent in 
two, and leaned on a big, big stick. He had a bag 
on his shoulders. And silently, softly, he came 
straight to me. 

44 Now, little boy, get into my bag, and come.” 
So said to me the old man, but in a kind voice, and 
softly and sweetly. 

I asked him 44 Where to ? ” And he replied : 
44 You will see later.” I did not want to go, and 
he said to me again : 44 Come.” And I began to 
argue with him. 44 How can I go with you when I 
am a wealthy man’s son ? ” Said he to me : 44 And 
as a wealthy man’s son, of what great value are you ? 
Said I : 44 1 am the only child of my father and 
mother.” Said he : 44 To me you are not an only 
child ! ” Said 1 : 44 1 am fretted over. If they 
find that I am gone, they will not get over it, they 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


30 


will die, especially my mother.” He looked at 
me, the old man did, very kindly, and he said to me, 
softly and sweetly as before : 44 If you do not want 
to die, then come with me. Say good-bye to your 
father and mother, and come.” 64 But, how can 
I come when I am an only child, the only one left 
alive out of seven ? ” 

Then he said to me more sternly : 44 For the last 
time, little boy. Choose one of the two. Either 
you say good-bye to your father and mother, and 
come witly me, or you remain here, but fast asleep 
for ever and ever.” 

Having said these words, he stepped back from 
me a little, and was turning to the door. What 
was to be done ? To go with the old man, God- 
knows-where, and get lost, would mean the death 
of my father and mother. I am an only child, 
the only one left alive out of seven. To remain 
here, and fall asleep for ever and ever — that would 
mean that I myself must die. . . . 

I stretched out my hand to him, and with tears 
in my eyes I said : 44 Elijah the Prophet, dear, 
kind, loving, darling Elijah, give me one minute 
to think.” He turned towards me his handsome, 
yellow, wrinkled old face with its grizzled beard 
reaching to his knees, and he looked at me with his 
beautiful, kind, loving, faithful eyes, and he said 
to me with a smile : 44 1 will give you one minute 
to decide, my child — but, no more than one minute.” 


ELIJAH THE PROPHET 31 

I ask you. “ What should I have decided to 
do in that one minute, so as to save myself from 
going with the old man, and also to save myself 
from falling asleep for ever ? Well, who can 
guess ? ” 


GETZEL 


44 Sit downy and I will tell you a story about nuts.” 

“ About nuts ? About nuts ? ” 

46 About nuts.” 

44 Now ? War-time ? ” 

44 Just because its war-time. Because your 
heart is heavy, I want to distract your thoughts 
from the war. In any case, when you crack a nut, 
you find a kernel.” 

His name was Getzel, but they called him 
Goyetzel. Whoever had God in his heart made fun 
of Getzel, ridiculed him. He was considered a bit 
of a fool. Amongst us school-boys he was looked 
upon as a young man. He was a clumsily built 
fellow, had extremely coarse hands, and thick lips. 
He had a voice that seemed to come from an empty 
barrel. He wore wide trousers and big top-boots, 

׳ like a bear. His head was as big as a kneading 
trough. This head of his, ‘ Reb ’ Yankel used to 
say, was stuffed with hay or feathers. The 
4 Rebbe ’ frequently reminded Getzel of his great size 
and awkwardness. 44 Goyetzel,” 44 Coarse being,” 
44 Bullock’s skin,” and other such nicknames were 
bestowed on him by the teacher. And he never 
32 


33 


GETZEL 


seemed to care a rap about them. He hid in a 
corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a 
calf. You must know that Getzel was fond of 
eating. Food was dearer to him than anything 
else. He was a mere stomach. The master called 
him a glutton, but Getzel didn’t care about that 
either. The minute he saw food, he thrust it into 
his mouth, and chewed and chewed vigorously. 
He had sent to him, to the 4 Cheder ,’ the best of 
everything. This great, clumsy fool was, along 
with everything else, his wealthy mother’s darling — 
her only child. And she took the greatest care 
of him. Day and night, she stuffed him like a 
goose, and was always wailing that her child ate 
nothing. 

44 He ought to have the evil eye averted from 
him,” our teacher used to say, behind Getzel’s 
back, of course. 

“ To the devil with his mother,” the teacher’s 
wife used to add, in such a voice, and making such 
a grimace over her words that it was impossible to 
keep from laughing. 44 In Polosya they keep such 
children in swaddling clothes. May he suffer 
instead of my old bones ! ” 

44 May I live longer than his head,” the teacher 
put in, after her, and pulled Getzel’ s cap down over 
his ears. 

The whole 4 Cheder 5 laughed. Getzel sat silent. 
He was sulky, but kept silent. It was hard to get 
him into a temper. But, when he did get into a 

D 


34 JEWISH CHILDREN 

temper, he was terrible. Even an angry bear could 
not be fiercer than he. He used to dance with 
passion, and bite his own big hands with his strong 
white teeth. If he gave one a blow, one felt it — 
one enjoyed it. This the boys knew very well. 
They had tasted his blows, and they were terribly 
afraid of him. They did not want to have anything 
to do with him. You know that Jewish children 
have a lot of respect for beatings. And in order to 
protect themselves against Getzel, all the ten boys 
had to keep united — ten against one. And that 
was how it came about that there were two parties 
at 4 Reb ’ Yankel’s 4 Cheder .’ On the one side, all the 
pupils ; on the other, Getzel. The boys kept their 
wits about them ; Getzel his fists. The boys worked 
at their lessons ; Getzel ate continually. 

It came to pass that on a holiday the boys 
got together to play nuts. Playing nuts is a 
game like any other, neither better than tops, nor 
worse than cards. The game is played in various 
ways. There are “ holes” and “bank” and “caps.” 
But every game finishes up in the same way. One 
boy loses, another wins. And, as always, he who 
wins is a clever fellow, a smart fellow, a good fellow. 
And he who loses is a good-for-nothing, a fool and 
a ne’er-do-well ; just as it happens in the big 
cities, at the clubs, where people sit playing cards 
night and day. 

The ten boys got together in the 4 Cheder ’ to play 


85 


GETZEL 


nuts. They turned over a bench, placed a row of 
nuts on the floor, and began rolling other nuts 
downwards. Whoever knocked the most nuts out 
of the row won the whole lot. Suddenly the door 
opened, and Getzel came in, his pockets loaded with 
nuts, as usual. 

“ Welcome art thou — a Jew ! ” cried one of the 
boys. 

44 If you speak of the Messiah,” put in a second. 

14 Vive Haman ! ” cried a third. 

44 And Rashi says, 4 The devil brought him 
here , 5 ” cried a fourth. 

44 What are you playing ? Bank ? Then I’ll 
play too,” said Getzel, to which he got an immediate 
reply : 

44 No, with a little cap.” 

44 Why not ? ” 

44 Just for that.” 

44 Then I won’t let you play.” 

He didn’t hesitate a moment, but scattered the 
nuts about the floor with his bear’s paws. The boys 
got angry. The cheek of the rascal ! 

44 Boys, why don’t you do something ? ” asked 
one. 

44 What shall we do ? ” asked a second. 

44 Let’s break his bones for him,” suggested a 
third. 

44 All right. Try it on,” cried Getzel. He turned 
up his sleeves, ready for work. 

And there took place a battle, a fight between 


36 JEWISH CHILDREN 

the two parties. On the one side was the whole 
4 Cheder ’ ; on the other, Getzel. 

Ten is not one. It was true they felt what 
GetzeFs fists tasted like. Bruises and marks around 
the eyes were the portion of the ten. But for that, 
again, they gave him a good taste of the world with 
their sharp nails and their teeth, and every other 
thing they could. From the front and from the back 
and from all sides, he got blows and kicks and pulls 
and thumps and bites and scratches. Well, ten is 
not one. They overcame him. Getzel had to 
get himself off, disappear. And now begins the 
real story of the nuts. 

After he left the 4 Cheder bruised and scratched 
and torn and bleeding, Getzel stood thinking for a 
while. He clapped his hands on his pockets, and 
there was heard the rattling of nuts. 

“You don’t want to play nuts with me, then 
may the Angel of Death play with you. I want you 
for ten thousand sacrifices. I can manage. We 
two will play by ourselves.” 

That was what Getzel said to himself. The 
next minute he was off like the wind. He stopped 
in the middle of the road to say aloud, as if there 
was some one with him : 

“ Where to ? Where, for instance, shall we go, 
Getzel ? ” And at once he answered himself : 
“ There, far outside the town, on the other side of 
the mill. There we shall be alone, the two of us. 


37 


GETZEL 


No one will disturb us. Let any one attempt to 
disturb us, and we will break bones, and make an 
end.” 

Talking with himself, Getzel felt that he was 
not alone. He was not one but two ; and he felt 
as strong as two. Let the boys dare to come near 
him, and he would break them to atoms. He would 
reduce them to a dust-heap. He enjoyed listening 
to his own words, and did not stop talking to 
himself, as if he really had some one beside him. 

“ Listen to me. How far are we going to go ? ” 
he asked himself. And he answered himself almost 
in a strange voice : 

44 Well, it all depends on you.” 

44 Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play 
nuts ? Well ? What do you say, Getzel ? ” 

“ It’s all the same to me.” 

Getzel sat down on the ground, far beyond the 
town, behind the mill, took out the nuts, counted 
them, divided them in two equal parts, put one 
lot in his right-hand pocket, and the other in his 
left. He took off his cap, and threw into it a few 
nuts from his right-hand pocket. He said to 
himself : 

“ They imagine I can’t get on without them. 
Listen, Getzel, what game are we playing ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Whatever game you like.” 

44 Then let us play 4 odd or even.’ ” 

44 I’m quite willing.” 

He shook his cap. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


38 


44 Now, guess. Odd or even ? Well, speak 
out,” he said to himself. He dug his elbow into 
his own ribs, and said to himself : 

44 Even.” 

“ Even did you say ? Who’ll thrash you ? 
You have lost. Hand over three nuts.” 

He took three nuts from his left-hand pocket, 
and put them into the right. Again he shook the 
cap, and again he asked : 

44 Odd or even this time ? ” 

“ Odd.” 

“ Did you say odd ? May you suffer for ever ! 
Hand them over here. You have lost four nuts.” 

He changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket 
to the right, shook the cap and said again : 

44 Well, maybe you’ll guess right now. Odd or 
even ? ” 

“ Even.” 

44 Even did you say ? May your bones rot ! 
You rascal, hand out here five nuts.” 

44 Isn’t it enough that I lose. Why do you 
curse me ? ” 

44 Whose fault is it that you are a fool and that 
you guess as a blind man guesses a hole ? Well, 
say again — odd or even ? This time you must be 
right.” 

44 Even.” 

44 Even ? May you live long ! Hand out seven 
nuts, you fool, and guess again. Odd or even ? ” 

44 Even.” 


39 


GETZEL 


64 Again even. May you be my father ! Good- 
for-nothing, hand over five more nuts, and guess 
again. Maybe you will guess right for once. 
Odd or even ? Why are you silent — eh ? ” 

44 1 have no more nuts.” 

“ It’s a lie, you have ! ” 

44 As I am a Jew I haven’t.” 

44 Just look in your pocket, like this.” 

“ There isn’t even a sign of one.” 

“ None ? Lost all the nuts ? Well, what good 
has it done you ? Aren’t you a fool ? ” 

“ Enough ! You have won all my nuts, and 
now you torment me.” 

“It’s good, it’s all right. You wanted to win all 
my nuts, and I have won yours.” 

Goyetzel was well satisfied that Getzel had lost, 
whilst he, Goyetzel had won. He felt it was doing 
him good to win. He felt equal to winning all 
the nuts in the whole world. “ Where are they 
now, the 4 Cheder ’ boys ? I would have got my own 
back from them. I would not have left them the 
smallest nut, not even for a cure. They would 
have died here on the ground in front of me.” 

Getzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists, 
clenched his teeth, and spoke to himself, just as if 
there was some one beside him. 

“ Well, try now. Now that I am not by myself. 
Now that there are two of us. Well, Getzel, why 
are you sitting there like a bridegroom ? Let’s 
play nuts another little while.” 


40 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“ Nuts ? Where have I nuts ? Didn’t I tell 
you I haven’t a single one ? ” 

“ Ah, I forgot that you have no more nuts 
Do you know what I would advise you, Getzel ? ” 
“ For instance ? ” 

“ Have you any money ? ” 

“ I have. Well, what of that ? ” 

“ Buy nuts from me.” 

“ What do you mean by saying I should buy 
nuts off you ? ” 

“ Fool ! Don’t you know what buying means ? 
Give me money, and I’ll give you nuts. Eh ? ” 

“ Well, I agree to that.” 

He took from his purse a silver coin, bargained 
about the price, counted a score of nuts from the 
right-hand pocket to the left, and the play began 
all over again. 

An experienced card-player, the story goes, 
half an hour before his death called his son — also 
a gambler — to his bedside, and said to him : 

“ My child, I am going from this world. We 
shall never meet again. I know you play cards. 
You have my nature. You may play as much as 
you like, only take care not to play yourself out.” 

These words are almost a law. There is nothing 
worse in the world than playing yourself out. 
Experienced people say it deprives a man even of 
his last shirt. It drives a man to desperate acts. 
And one cannot hope to rise at the Resurrection 
after that. So people say. And so it happened 


41 


GETZEL 


with our young man. He worked so long, shaking 
his cap, “ odd or even,” taking from one pocket and 
putting into the other, until his left-hand pocket 
hadn’t a single nut in it. 

44 Well, why don’t you play ? ” 

44 1 have nothing to play with.” 

44 Again you have no nuts, good-for-nothing ! ” 

44 You say I am a good-for-nothing. And I 
say you are a cheat.” 

44 If you call me, a cheat again, I will give you a 
clout in the jaw.” 

44 Let the Lord put it into your head.” 

Getzel sat quiet for a few minutes, scraping the 
ground with his fingers, digging a hole, and 
muttering a song under his breath. Then he 
said : 

44 Dirty thing, let us play nuts.” 

44 Where have I nuts ? ” 

44 Haven’t you money ? I will sell you another 
ten.” 

44 Money ? Where have I money ? ” 

44 No money and no nuts ? Oh, I can’t stand 
it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

The laugh echoed over the whole field, and 
re-echoed in the distant wood. Getzel was con- 
vulsed with laughter. 

44 What are you laughing at, you Goyetzel you ? ” 
he asked himself. And he answered himself in a 
different voice : 

44 1 am laughing at you, good-for-nothing. 


42 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Isn’t it enough that you lost all my nuts on me ? 
Why did you want to go and lose my money as 
well ? Such a lot of money. You fool of fools ! 
Oh, I can’t get over it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“You yourself brought me to it. You wicked 
one of wicked ones ! You scamp ! You rascal ! ” 
44 Fool of the night ! If I were to tell you to 
cut off your nose, must you do it ? You idiot ! 
You animal with the horse’s face, you ! Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! ” 

44 Be quiet, at any rate, you Goyetzel, you. 
And let me not see your forbidding countenance.” 

And he turned away from himself, sat sulky for 
a few minutes, scraping the earth with his fingers. 
He covered the hole he had made, as he sang a 
little song under his breath. 

44 Do you know what I will tell you, Getzel ? ” 
he said to himself a few minutes later. 44 Let us 
forgive one another. Let us be friends. The Lord 
helped me. It was my luck to win so many 
nuts — may no evil eye harm them ! Why should 
we not enjoy ourselves ? Let’s crack a few nuts. 
I should think they are not bad ! Well, what do 
you say, Getzel ? ” 

44 Yes, I also think they ought not to be bad,” 
he answered himself. He thrust a nut into his 
mouth, a second, a third. Each time, he banged 
his teeth with his fists. The nut was cracked. 
He took out a fat kernel, cleaned it round, threw it 
back in his mouth, and chewed it pleasurably with 


43 


GETZEL 


his strong white teeth. He crunched them as a 
horse crunches oats. He said to himself : 

44 Would you also like the kernel of a nut, 
Getzel ? Speak out. Do not ~be ashamed.״ 

“ Why not ? ” 

That was how he answered himself. He 
stretched out his left hand, but only smacked it 
with his right. 

44 Will you have a plague ? 5 5 

44 Let it be a plague.” 

44 Then have two.” 

And he did not cease from cracking the nuts, 
and crunching them like a horse. It was not 
enough that he sat eating and gave none to the 
other, but he said to him : 

44 Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How, 
for example, do you feel while I am eating and you 
are only looking on ? ” 

44 How do I feel ? May you have such a year ! ” 

44 Ah, I see you’ve got a temper. Here is a 
kernel for you.” 

And Getzel’ s right hand gave the left a kernel . 
The right turned upside down. The left hand 
smacked the right. The left hand smacked the 
right cheek. Then the right hand smacked the left 
cheek" twice. The left hand caught hold of the 
right lapel of his coat, and the right hand at once 
tore off the left lapel, from top to bottom. The 
left hand pulled the right earlock. The right hand 
gave the left ear a terrible bang. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


44 


“ Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my 
advice, and let go of my earlock ! ” 

“ A plague ! ” 

“ Then you’ll have no earlock, Getzel.” 

“ Then you, Goyetzel, will have no ear.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ Oh ! Oh!” 

Epilogue. 

For several minutes our Getzel rolled on the 
ground. Now he lay right side up, and now he lay 
left side up. He held his pocketful of nuts with 
both hands. . . . One minute Goyetzel was vie- 
torious. The next it was Getzel, until he got up 
from the ground covered with dirt, like a pig. He 
was torn to pieces, had a bleeding ear, and a torn 
earlock. He took all the nuts from his pocket, and 
threw them into the mud of the river, far away, 
behind the mill. He muttered angrily: 

“ That’s right. It’s a good deed.” 

“ Neither you — nor me.” 


A LOST “L’AG BEOMER.” 

Our teacher, 4 Reb ’ Nissel the small one — so called 
on account of his size — allowed himself to be led 
by the nose by his assistants. Whatever they 
wanted they got. When the first assistant said 
the children were to be sent home early that day, 
he sent them home early. The second assistant 
said that the boys would turn the world upside 
down, and ought to be kept at school, and he kept 
them at school. He could never decide anything 
for himself. That was why his assistants controlled 
the school, and not he. At other schools the 
assistants teach the children to wash their hands 
and say the blessing. At our school, the assistants 
would not do this for us, nor fetch us our meals, 
nor take us to school on&their shoulders. No, they 
liked to go for our meals. They ate them themselves 
on the road. We did not dare to tell the master 
of this. The assistants kept us in fear and 
trembling. If a boy whispered a word of their 
doings to the teacher, he would be flogged, his 
skin would be cut. Once, a daring boy told the 
master something ; and the assistant beat him 
45 


46 JEWISH CHILDREN 

so terribly that he was laid up in bed for months. 
He warned the boys never to tell the master 
anything, no matter what the assistants did. 

This period of our schooldays might be called 
the Tyranny of the Assistants. 

And it came to pass that we were under the 
yoke of the assistants. One year, we had a cold 
‘Uag Beomer .’ It was a cold, wet May, such 
as we sometimes had in our town, Mazapevka. 
The sun barely showed itself. A sharp wind blew, 
brought us clouds, tore open our coats, and threw 
us off our feet. It was not pleasant out of doors. 

Just then the assistants took it into their 
heads to take us for a walk outside the town, so 
that we might play at wars, with swords and pop- 
guns and bows and arrows. 

It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to 
become war-like on the ‘L’ag Beomer .’ They arm 
themselves from head to foot with wooden swords, 
pop-guns and' bows and arrows. They take food 
with them, and go off to wage war. Jewish children 
who are the whole year round closed up in small 
* Chedorim , י oppressed by fears of the master, and 
trembling under the whips of the assistants, when 
‘ L'ag Beomer ’ comes round, and they may go out 
into the ope$, armed from head to foot, imagine 
that they are giants who can overcome the strongest 
foe and reduce the world to ruins. All at once 
they grow brave. They step forward eagerly, 


A LOST 44 L’AG BEOMER ” 47 

singing songs that are a curious mixture of Yiddish 
and Russian. 

44 One, two, three, four ! 

Jewish children 
Learn the ‘ Torah,’ 

Believe in miracles, 

Are not afraid. 

Hear, O Israel ! Nothing matters. 

We are not afraid of any one, 

Excepting God.” 

And we carried out the old custom. We took 
down our swords of last year from the attic, and we 
made bows from the hoops of old wine barrels. 
Pop-guns the assistants provided us with, for 
money, of course — fine guns with which one could 
shoot flies if they only stood still long enough. In 
a word, we had all the Jewish weapons to frighten 
tiny infants to death. And we provided ourselves 
with food in good earnest, each boy as much as 
the Lord had blessed him with, and his mother 
would give him, out of her generosity. We arrived at 
* Cheder 9 armed from head to foot, and our pockets 
bulging out with good things — rolls, cakes, boiled 
eggs, goose-fat, cherry-wine, fruit, fowls, livers, 
tea and sugar, and preserves and jam, and also 
many ‘ groschens’ in money. Each boy tried to 
show off by bringing the best and the largest 
quantity. And we wished to please the assistants. 
They praised us, and said we were very good boys 
They took our food and put it into their bags 


48 JEWISH CHILDREN 

They placed us in rows, like soldiers, and com- 
manded us. 

“ Jewish children, take hands, and march 
across the bridge, straight for Mezritzer fields. 
There you will meet the sea-cats, and do battle 
with them.” 

u Hurrah for the sea-cats ! ” we shouted in one 
voice. We took hands and went forward, like 
giants, strong and courageous. 

We called the Free School boys sea-cats because 
they were short little children in the A.B.C. class. 
They appeared to us 4 Chumash 9 boys like flies, ants. 
We imagined that with one blow — phew ! we 
would make an end of them. We were certain 
that when they saw us, how we were armed from 
head to foot with swords and bows and arrows and 
pop-guns, they would surely fly away. It was no 
trifle to encounter such giants. You play with 
4 Chumash ’ boys, warriors with long legs ! 

We had never fought the sea-cats before. But 
we had every reason to believe, we were convinced, 
we would conquer these squirrels with a glance, 
destroy them, make an end of them. Along with 
giving them a good licking, we would take spoil 
from them, that is to say, their food, and let them 
go hungry. 

We were so full of our own courage, and so 
enthusiastic about the brave deeds we were going 
to do that we pushed each other forward, clapped 


49 


A LOST “ L’AG BEOMER ” 


each other on the shoulder. Then, too, the assist- 
ants urged us forward. 

“ Why do you crawl like insects ? ” they asked 
us. They themselves stopped frequently, opened 
the bags, and tasted our food and cherry-wine, 
which they praised highly. 

“ Excellent cherry-wine,” they said, passing 
round the bottles, and letting the liquid gurgle 
down their throats. “ Splendid liquor. The best 
I ever tasted.” 

That was what the assistants said. They 
actually licked their fingers. They remained in 
the distance, but indicated with their hands that 
we must go forward, forward. 

We went on and on, over the wide Mezritzer 
field, though the wind blew stronger and stronger. 
The sky grew black with clouds, and a cold, thick 
rain beat into our faces. Our hands were blue 
with the cold. Our boots squelched in the mud. 
We had long given up singing songs. We were 
tired and hungry, very hungry. We decided to 
sit down and rest, and have something to eat. 

“ Where are the assistants ? Where is the 
food — where is it ? ” 

The boys began to murmur against the assistants. 

“It is a dirty trick to take all our food from 
us, and our cherry-wine and our few ‘ groschens ,’ and 
to leave us here in the desert, cold and hungry. 
May the devil take them ! ” 

“ May a bad end come to the assistants ! ” 

E 


50 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“ May the cholera strike down all the assistants 
in the world ! ” 

“ May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest 
nails ! ” 

“ Hush. Let there be silence. Here come our 
foes, our enemies.” 

“ Little squirrels with big sticks.” 

“ The sea-cats — the sea-cats ! ” 

64 Hurrah for the sea-cats ! ” 

The moment we saw them, we rushed towards 
them, like fierce starving wolves. We were ready 
to tear them to pieces. But there happened to us 
a misfortune, a great misfortune which no one could 
possibly have foreseen. 

If it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength 
nor smartness are of any avail. Listen to what 
can happen. 

The sea- cats, though they were small, short 
little squirrels, were evidently no fools. Before 
going to do battle on the broad Mezritzer field, 
they had prepared themselves well at home, gone 
through their drill. Afterwards, they fed up. 
They also took with them warm clothing and 
rubber goloshes. They were armed from head to 
foot no worse than we were, with swords and pop- 
guns and bows and arrows. They would not wait 
until we had taken the offensive. They attacked 
us first, and began to break our bones. And how, 
do you think ? From all sides at once, and so 


A LOST “ L’AG BEOMER ” 51 

suddenly that we had no time to look about us. 
Before we realised it, they were upon us. They 
were not alone, but had their assistants to urge 
them on and encourage them. 

“ Pay out the 4 Chumash ’ boys. Beat them, 
the boys with the long legs.” 

Naturally we were not silent either. We stood 
up against the squirrels, like giants, beat them 
with our swords, aimed our arrows at them, and 
shot at them with our pop-guns. But, alas ! our 
swords were dull as wood ; and before we could 
set our bows, they had thrashed us. I say 
nothing of the guns. What can you do with a 
pop-gun if the foe will not wait until you have 
taken aim at him ? They rushed forward and 
knocked the guns out of our hands. What could 
we do ? 

We had to throw away our weapons, our 
swords and pop-guns and bows and arrows, and 
fight as the Lord has ordained. That is to say, 
we fought with our fists. But we were hungry 
and tired and cold, and fought without a plan, 
because our assistants had remained behind. They 
let us fight whilst they ate our food and drank our 
cherry-wine — the devil take them ! And they, the 
little squirrels, well-fed and well-clad, had crept 
upon us from three sides at once, each moment 
growing stronger and stronger. They rained down 
on us blows and thumps and digs. The same blows 
that we had reckoned on giving them they gave 


52 JEWISH CHILDREN 

us. And their assistants went in front of them, 
and never ceased from urging them on. 

46 Pay back the 4 Chumash 9 boys. Beat them, 
beat them, the boys with the long legs.” 

Who was the first to turn his back on the 
enemy ? It would be hard to say. I only know 
we ran quickly, helter-skelter, back home, back 
to Mazapevka. And they, the little squirrels — 
may they burn ! — ran after us, shouting and yelling 
and laughing at us, right on top of us. 

44 Hurrah ! 4 Chumash ’ boys ! Hurrah ! Big 

boys ! ” 


We arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised, 
beaten. And we giants imagined that our parents 
would pity us, give us cakes because of the blows 
we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. 
No one thought of us. We thanked God we were 
so fortunate as to escape without beatings from 
our parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. 
But next morning we got a good whipping from 
our teacher, Nissel the small one, for the bruises 
we had on our foreheads and the blue marks around 
our eyes. It is shameful to tell it — we were each 
whipped in the true style. This was a mere 
addition, as if we had not had enough. 

We were not sorry for anything but that the 
assistants gave us another share. When a father 
or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When 
a teacher beats one it is because he is a teacher. 


A LOST “ L’AG BEOMER” 58 

And what is his rod for, anyway ? But the 
assistants ! Our curses upon them ! As if it were 
not enough that they had eaten all our food, and 
drunk our cherry-wine — may they suffer for it, 
Father of the Universe !■ — as if it were not enough 
that they had left us to fight alone, in the middle 
of the field, but when they were whipping us 
they held our feet, so that we might not kick either. 

And that was how our holiday ended up. It 
was a dark, dreary, lost 4 L'ag Beomer 3 


MURDERERS. 


“Is he still snoring ?*” 

“ And how snoring ! ” 

“ May he perish ! ” 

“ Wake him up. Wake him up.” 

“ Leib־Dreib־Obderick ! ” 

“ Get up, my little bird.” 

“ Open your little eyes.” 

I barely managed to open my eyes, raise my 
head, and look about me. I saw a whole crowd 
of rascals, my school-fellows. The window was 
open, and along with their sparkling eyes I saw 
the first rays of the bright, warm early morning 
sun. I looked about me, on all sides. 

“ Just see how he looks.” 

“ Like a sinner.” 

“ Did you not recognise us ? ” 

“ Have you forgotten that it is 4 V ag Beomer ’ 
to-day ? ” 

The words darted through all my limbs like a 
flash of lightning. I was carried out of bed by 
them. In the twinkling of an eye, I was dressed. 

54 


55 


MURDERERS 


I went in search of my mother, who was busy with 
the breakfast and the younger children. 

44 Mother, to-day is 4 L’ag Beomer .’ ” 

“A good 4 Yom-tov' to you. What do you 
want ? ” 

44 1 want something for the party.” 

44 What am I to give you ? My troubles ? 
Or my aches ? ” 

So said my mother to me. Nevertheless, she 
was ready to give me something towards the party. 
We bargained about it. I wanted a lot. She 
would only give a little. I wanted two eggs. 
Said she : 44 A suffering in the bones ! ” I began 
to grow angry. She gave me two smacks. I 
began to cry. She gave me an apple to quieten 
me. I wanted an orange. Said she : 44 Greedy 
boy, what will you want next ? ” And my friends 
on the other side of the window were kicking up 
a row. 

44 Will you ever come out, or not ? ” 

44 Leib-Dreib-Obderick ! ” 

44 The day is flying ! ” 

44 Quicker ! Quicker ! ” 

44 Like the wind.” 

After much arguing, I got round my mother. 
I snatched up my breakfast and my share of the 
party, and flew out of the house, fresh, lively, joyful, 
to my waiting comrades. All together we flew 
down the hill to the 4 Cheder .’ 


56 JEWISH CHILDREN 

The 4 Cheder ’ was full of noise and tumult and 
shouting that reached to the sky. A score throats 
shouted at the one time. The table was covered 
with delicacies. We had never had such a party 
as we were going to have that 4 L'ag Beomer ׳.* We 
had wine and brandy, for which we had to thank 
Berrel Yossel, the wine-merchant’s son. He had 
brought a bottle of brandy and two bottles of 
wine made by Yossel himself. His father had given 
him the brandy, but the wine he had taken himself. 

44 What do you mean by saying he took it 
himself ? ” 

44 Don’t you understand, peasant’s head ? He 
took it from the shelf when no one was looking.” 

44 Gracious me ! That means he stole ? ” 

44 Fool of the night ! Well, what then ? ” 

44 What do you mean ? Then he is a thief ? ” 

44 For the sake of the party, fool.” 

44 Is it a good deed to steal for that ? ” 

44 Certainly. What do you say to the wise 
one of the 4 Four questions ’ ? ” 

44 Where is it written ? ” 

44 He wants us to tell him where it is written ? ײ 
44 Tell him it is written in the Book of Jests.” 

44 In the chapter called 4 And he took.’ ” 

44 Beginning with the words 4 Bim-bom.’ ” 

44 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

44 Hush, children, Mazeppa comes.” 

All at once there was silence. We were sitting 
around the table quiet as lambs, like angels, golden 


MURDERERS 57 

children who could not count two, and whose souls 
were innocent. 

• • • • • 

Mazeppa was the teacher’s name. That is to 
say, his real name was Baruch-Moshe. He had 
come to our town from Mazapevka not long before, 
and the people called him the Mazapevkar. We 
boys shortened his name to Mazeppa. And when 
pupils crown their teacher with such a lovely 
name, he must be worthy of it. Let me introduce 
him. 

He is small, thin, dried-up, hideously ugly. 
He hasn’t even the signs of a moustache or beard 
or eyebrows. Not because he shaved, God forbid, 
but simply because they would not grow. But 
for that again he had a pair of lips and a nose. 
Oh, what a nose ! It was curved like a ram’s horn. 
And he had a voice like a bull. He growled like a 
lion. Where did such a creature get such a terrible 
roar ? And where did he get so much strength ? 
When he took hold of you by the hand with his 
cold, bony fingers, you saw the next world. When 
he boxed your ears, you felt the smart for three 
days on end. He hated arguing. For the least 
thing, guilty or not guilty, he had one sentence : 
44 Lie down.” 

44 ( Rebbe,’ Yossel- Yakov- Yossels thumped me.” 

44 Lie down.” 

44 4 Rebbe,’ it’s a lie. He first kicked me in the 


side.” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


58 


44 Lie down.” 

4 4 4 Rebbe ,’ Chayim-Berrel Lippes put out his 
tongue at me.” 

44 Lie down.” 

44 4 Rebbe it’s a lie of lies. He made a noise at 
me.” 

44 Lie down.” 

And you had to lie down. Nothing would 
avail you. Even Elya the red one, who is already 
‘ Bar-mitzvahS and is engaged to be married, and 
wears a silver watch — do you think he is never 
flogged ? Oh yes ! And how ? Elya says he 
will be avenged for the floggings he gets. Some 
day or other he will pay back the 4 Rebbe ’ in such a 
way that his children’s children will remember it. 
That’s what Elya says after each flogging. And 
we echo his words. 

44 Amen ! May it be so ! From your mouth 
into God’s ears ! ” 

We said our prayers with the teacher, as usual. 
(He never let us pray by ourselves because he 
thought we might skip more than half the prayers.) 
Mazeppa said to us in his lion’s roar : 

44 Now, children, wash your hands and sit down 
to the party. After grace I will let you go for a walk.” 

We used to hold our 4 Uag Beomer ’ party outside 
the town, in the open air, on the bare earth, under 
God’s sky. We used to throw crumbs of bread to 
the birds. Let them also know that it is 4 Va.% 


59 


MURDERERS 


Beomer ’ in the world. But one does not argue with 
Mazeppa. When he told one to sit down, one sat 
down, lest he might tell one to lie down. 

44 Eat in peace,” he said to us, after we had 
pronounced the blessing. 

44 Come and eat with us,” we replied out of 
politeness. 

44 Eat in health,” he said. 44 1 do not wish to 
eat yet. But, if you like, I will make a blessing 
over the wine. What have you in that bottle ? 
Brandy ? ” he asked, and stretched out his long, 
dried-up hand with its bony fingers to the bottle 
of brandy. He poured out a glassful, tasted it, 
and made such a grimace that we must have 
been stronger than iron to control ourselves from 
exploding with laughter. 

44 Whose is this terrible thing ? ” he asked, 
taking another drop. 44 It’s not a bad brandy.” 
He filled a third glass and drank our health. 

44 Long life to you, children. May God grant 
that we be alive next year, and — and . . . 
Haven’t you anything to bite ? Well, in honour 
of 4 L’ag Beomer ’ I will wash my hands and eat 
with you.” 

What is wrong with our teacher ? He’s not 
the same Mazeppa. He is in good humour, and 
talkative. His cheeks are shining ; his nose is red ; 
and his eyes are sparkling. He eats and laughs 
and points to the bottle of wine. 

44 What sort of wine have you there ? Passover 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


60 


wine ? ” (He tasted it and pursed up his lips.) 
“ P-s-ss ! The best wine in the world.” (He drank 
more.) “ It’s a long time since I tasted such 
wine.” (To Yossel the wine merchant’s son, with a 
laugh.) “ The devil take your father’s cellar. I saw 
there barrels upon barrels. And of the finest 
raisins. Ha ! ha ! To your health, children. 
May the Lord help you to be honest, pious Jews, 
and may you — may you open the second bottle. 
Take glasses and drink to long life. May God 

grant that — that ” (He licked his lips. His 

eyes were closing.) “ All good to the children of 
Israel.” 

Having eaten and said grace, Mazeppa turned 
to us, his tongue failing him as he spoke : 

“ Then we have carried out the duty of eating 
together on ‘L’ag Beomer .’ Well, and what next, 
eh ?” 

“ Now we will go for the walk.” 

“ For the walk, eh ? Excellent. Where do 
we go ? ” 

“ To the black forest.” 

“ Ha ? To the black forest ? Excellent. I 
go with you. It is good to walk in a forest, very 
healthy, because a forest . . . Well, I will explain 
to you what a forest is.” 

We went off with our teacher, beyond the town. 
We were not altogether comfortable having him 
with us. But, shah ! The teacher walked in the 


x JRDERERS 61 

middle, waving his hands and explaining to us 
what a forest was. 

“ The nature of the forest, you must know, is as 
the Lord has created it. It is full of trees. On 
the trees are branches; and the branches are 
covered with leaves that give out a pleasant, 
pungent odour.” 

As he spoke, he sniffed the air that was not yet 
either pleasant or pungent. 

44 Well, why are you silent ? ” he asked. 44 Say 
something nice. Sing a song. Well, I was also a 
boy once, and mischievous like you. I also had a 
teacher. Ha ! ha ! ” 

That Mazeppa had once been a mischievous 
boy and had had a teacher we could not believe. 
It was curious. Mazeppa playful ? We exchanged 
glances, and giggled softly. We tried to imagine 
Mazeppa playful and having a teacher. And did 

his teacher also ? We were afraid to think of 

such a thing. But Elya stopped to ask a question : 

44 ‘ Rebbe ,’ did your teacher also flog you as you 
flog us ? ” 

44 What ? And what sort of floggings ? Ha ! 
ha!” 

We looked at the teacher and at each other. 
We understood one another. We laughed with 
him, until we were far from the town, in the broad 
fields, close to the forest. 

The fields were beautiful — a Garden of Eden. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


62 


Green, fragrant grass, white boughs, yellow flowers, 
green flies, and above us the blue sky that stretched 
away endlessly. Facing us was the forest in holiday 
attire. In the trees the birds hopped, twittering, 
from branch to branch. They were welcoming us 
on the dear day of ‘L’ag Beomer .’ We sought 
shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a 
thick tree. We sat down on the ground in a row, 
the 4 Rebbe ’ in the middle. 

He was worn out. He threw himself on the 
ground, full-length, his face upwards. His eyes 
were closing. He could hardly manage to 
speak. 

44 You are dear, golden children. . . . Jewish 
children. . . . Saints. ... I love you, and you love 
me. . . . Oh yes, you Move me ? ” 

44 Like a pain in the eyes,” replied Elya. 

44 Well, I know you Move me,” went on the 
teacher. 

44 May the Lord love you as we do,” said Elya. 
We were frightened, and whispered to Elya : 

44 The Lord be with you ! ” 

44 Fools ! ” he said with a laugh. 44 What are 
you afraid of ? Don’t you see he is drunk ? ” 

44 What ? ” queried the teacher, one of whose 
eyes was already closed. 44 What are you saying ? 
Saints ? Of course. . . . The Guardian of Israel. 
Hal! Hal! Hal! Rrrssss ! ” 

And our teacher fell fast asleep. The snores 
burst from his nose like the blasts from a ram’s 


MURDERERS 63 

horn, sounding far into the forest־ We sat around 
him, and our hearts grew heavy. 

Is this our teacher ? Is this he whose glances 
we fear ? Is this Mazeppa ? 

“ Children,” said Elya to us, 44 why are we 
sitting like lumps of stone ? Let us think of a 
punishment for Mazeppa.” 

A great fear fell upon us. 

44 Fools, what are you afraid of ? ” he went on. 
44 He is now like a dead body, a corpse.” 

We trembled still more. Elya went on : 

44 Now we may do with him what we like. He 
flogged us the whole winter, as if we were sheep. 
Let us take revenge of him this once, at least.” 

44 What would you do to him ? ” 

44 Nothing. I will only frighten him.” 

44 How will you frighten him ? ” 

44 You shall soon see.” And he got up from the 
ground. He went over to the teacher, took off 
his leather strap and said to us : 

44 See, we will fasten him to the tree with his 
own belt in such a way that he will not be able to 
free himself. Then one of us will go over to him 
and shout in his ear: 4 4 4 Rebbe ־,’ murderers ! ” 

44 What will happen ? ” 

44 Nothing. We will run away, and he will 
shout, 4 Hear, O Israel ! ’ ” 

44 How long will he shout ? ” 

44 Until he gets used to it.” 


64 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Without another word, Elya tied the ‘ Rebbe ’ to 
the tree by the hands. We stood looking on, and a 
shudder passed over our bodies. 

Is this our teacher ? Is this he whose glances 
we fear ? Is this Mazeppa ? 

“ Why do you stand there like clay images ? ” 
said Elya to us. “ The Lord has performed a 
miracle. Mazeppa has fallen into our hands. Let 
us dance for joy.” 

We took hands and danced around the sleeping 
Mazeppa like savages. We danced and leaped and 
sang like lunatics. 

We stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher 
and shouted into his ear in a voice to waken the 
dead : 

“ Help, * Rebbe ’ / Murderers ! Murderers ! Mur״ 
derers ! ” 

We flew off together, like arrows from bows. 
We were afraid to stop a moment. We were even 
afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon 
us, even upon Elya, although he never ceased from 
shouting at us : 

“ Donkeys, fools, animals ! Why do you 
run ? ” 

“ Why do you run ? ” 

“ When you run I run too.” 

We got into the town full of excitement, and still 
shouting : 

“ Murderers ! Murderers ! ” 


65 


MURDERERS 


When the people saw us running, they ran after 
us. Seeing them running another crowd ran after 
them. 

44 Why are you running ? ” 

“ How are we to know ? Others run, and we 
run too.” 

After some time, one of our boys stopped. And 
seeing him, we also stopped, but still shouted : 

4 4 Murderers ! Murderers ! Murderers 1 ” 

44 Where ? Where ? Where ? ” 

44 There, in the black forest, murderers beset 
us. They bound our teacher to a tree, and God 
knows if he is still alive.” 

If you envy us because we are free, because we 
do not go to ‘ Cheder ’ (the 4 Rebbe ’ is lying ill), it is for 
nothing — for nothing. No one knows whom the 
shoe pinches — no one. No one knows who the real 
murderers are. We rarely see one another. When 
we meet, the first words are : 44 How is the teacher ? ” 
(He is no more Mazeppa.) And when we pray, 
we ask God to save the teacher. We weep in 
silence : 44 Oh, Father of the Universe ! Father 
of the Universe ! ” And Elya ? Don’t ask about 
him. May the devil take him — that same Elya ! 


Epilogue 

When the 4 Rebbe 5 recovered (he was ill six 
weeks, in the height of fever, and babbled constantly 

F 


66 JEWISH CHILDREN 

of murderers) and we went back to 4 Cheder ,’ we 
hardly recognised him, so greatly had he changed. 
What had become of his lion’s roar ? He had put 
away his strap, and there was no more “ Lie down,” 
and no more Mazeppa. On his face there was to be 
seen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole 
into our hearts. And Mazeppa suddenly grew dear 
to us, dear to our souls. Oh, if he had only 
scolded us ! But it was as if nothing had happened. 
Suddenly, he stopped us in the middle of the lesson, 
and asked us to tell him again the story of that 
4 Vag Beomer ’ day, and of the murderers in the 
forest. We did not hesitate, but told him again 
and again the story we knew off by heart — how 
murderers had come upon us in the forest, how 
they fell upon him, tied him to the tree, and were 
going to kill him with a knife, and how we rushed 
excitedly into the town, and by our shouting and 
clamours saved him. 

The 4 Rebbe ’ listened to us with closed eyes. Then 
he sighed, and asked us suddenly ; 

“ Are you quite sure they were murderers ? ” 

“ What else were they ? ” 

“ Perhaps bandits ? ” 

And the teacher’s eyes sought the distance. 
And we imagined that a curiously cunning smile 
was hovering around his thick lips. 


THREE LITTLE HEADS 

If my pen were an artist’s brush, or at the very least 
a photographic camera, I would create for you, 
my friend, a picture, for a present in honour of 
4 Shevuous of a rare group of three pretty little 
heads, of three poor naked, baL p oot Jewish children. 
All three little heads are black, and have curly hair. 
The eyes are big and shiny and burning. They 
gaze out in wonder, and seem to be always asking 
of the world the one question : Wherefore ? You 
look at them, and marvel at them, and feel guilty 
towards them, just as if you were really responsible 
for them — for the existence of three little super- 
fluous mortals in the world. 

The three pretty little heads are of two brothers 
and a little sister, Abram tzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke. 
They were brought up by their father in the true 
Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their father 
was Peisa the box-maker. And if he had not been 
afraid of his wife, Pessa, and if he had not been such 
a terribly poor man, he would have changed his 
Jewish name of Peisa into the Russian name of 
Petya. But, since he was a little afraid of his wife, 
Pessa, and since he was extremely poor — may it 
67 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


68 


remain far from us ! — he kept to his own name of 
Peisa the box-maker, until the good time comes, 
when everything will be different, as Bebel says, 
as Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise 
people say — when everything, everything will be 
different. But until the good happy time comes, 
one must get up at the dawn of day, and work far 
into the night, cutting out pieces of cardboard 
and pasting boxes and covers of books. Peisa the 
box-maker stands at his work all day long. He 
sings as he works, old and new songs, Jewish 
and non-Jewish, mostly gay-sorrowful songs, in a 
gay-sorrowful voice. 

“ Will you ever give up singing those Gentile 
songs ? Such a man ! And how he loves the 
Gentiles. Since we have come to this big town, he 
has almost become a Gentile.” 

All three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and 
Dvairke, were born and brought up in the same 
place — between the wall and the stove. They 
always saw before them the same people and the 
same things: the gay father who cut cardboards, 
pasted boxes, and sang songs, and the careworn, 
hollow-cheeked mother who cooked and baked, 
and rushed about, and was never finished her work. 
They were always at work, both of them — the 
mother at the stove, and the father at the card- 
boards. What were all the boxes for ? Who 
wanted so many boxes ? Is the whole world full 
of boxes ? That was what the three little heads 


THREE LITTLE HEADS 69 

wanted to know. And they waited until their 
father had a great pile of boxes ready, when he would 
take them on his head and in his arms — thousands 
of them — to the market. He came back without 
the boxes, but with money for the mother, and with 
cakes and buns for the children. He was a good 
father — such a good father. He was gold. The 
mother was also gold, but she was cross. One got 
a smack from her sometimes, a dig in the ribs, 
or a twist of an ear. She does not like to have the 
house untidy. She does not allow the children to 
play “fathers and mothers. ” She forbids Abramtzig 
to pick up the pieces of cardboard that have fallen 
to the floor, and Moshetzig to steal the paste from 
his father, and Dvairke to make bread of sand and 
water. The mother expects her children to sit 
still and keep quiet. It seems she does not know 
that young heads will think, and young souls are 
eager and restless. They want to go. Where ? 
Out of doors, to the light. To the window — to the 
window. 

There was only one window, and all three 
heads were stuck against it. What did they see 
out of it ? A wall. A high, big, grey, wet wall. 
It was always and ever wet, even in the summer. 
Does the sun ever come here ? Surely the sun 
comes here sometimes, that is to say, not the sun 
itself, but its reflection. Then there is a holiday. 
The three beautiful heads press against the little 


70 JEWISH CHILDREN 

window. They look upwards, very high, and see a 
narrow blue stripe, like a long blue ribbon. 

44 Do you see, children ? ” says Abramtzig. 
He knows. He goes to 4 Cheder .’ He is learning 
4 Kometz Aleph .’ The 4 Cheder ’ is not far away, 
in the next house, that is to say, in the next room. 
Ah, what stories Abramtzig tells about the 4 Cheder ’ / 
He tells how he saw with his own eyes — may he see 
all that is good !—a big building, with windows from 
top to bottom. Abramtzig swears that he saw — 
may he see all that is good ! — a chimney — a high 
chimney from which there came out smoke. 
Abramtzig tells that he saw with his own eyes — 
may he see all that is good ! — a machine that 
sewed without hands. Abramtzig tells that he 
saw with his own eyes — may he see all that is 
good ! — a car that went along without horses. 
And many more wonderful things Abramtzig tells 
from the 4 Cheder. ’ And he swears, just as his 
mother swears — that he may see all that is good. 
And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and 
sigh. They envy Abramtzig because he knows 
everything — everything. 

For instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree 
grows. It is true he never saw a tree growing. 
There are no trees in the street — none. But he 
knows — he heard it at 4 Cheder ’ — that fruit grows 
on a tree, for which reason one makes the blessing 
— 44 Who hast created the fruit of the tree.” 
Abramtzig knows — what does he not know ?— 


THREE LITTLE HEADS 71 

that potatoes and cucumbers and onions and 
garlic grow on the ground. And that’s why one 
says the blessing over them — 44 Who hast created 
the fruit of the ground.” Abramtzig knows 
everything. Only he does not know how and by 
what means things grow, because, like the other 
children, he never saw them. There is no field 
in their street, no garden, no tree, no grass — 
nothing — nothing. There are big buildings in 
their street, grey walls and high chimneys that 
belch out smoke. Each building has a lot of 
windows, thousands and thousands of windows, 
and machines that go without hands. And in 
the streets there are cars that go without horses. 
And beyond these, nothing — nothing. 

Even a little bird is seldom seen here. Some- 
times an odd sparrow strays in — grey as the grey 
walls. He picks, picks at the stones. He spreads 
out his wings and flies away. Fowls ? The 
children sometimes see the quarter of one with a 
long, pale leg. How many legs has a fowl ? 
44 Four, just like a horse,” explains Abramtzig. 
And surely he knows everything. Sometimes their 
mother brings home from the market a little head 
with glassy eyes that are covered with a white 
film. 44 It’s dead,” says Abramtzig, and all three 
children look at each other out of great black 
eyes ; and they sigh. 

Born and brought up in the big city, in the 
huge building, in the congestion, loneliness and 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


72 


poverty, not one of the three children ever saw 
a living creature, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor 
any other animal, excepting the cat. They have 
a cat of their own — a big, live cat, as grey as the 
high damp grey wall. The cat is their only play- 
toy. They play with it for hours on end. They 
put a shawl on her, call her “ 4 the wedding guest,” 
and laugh and laugh without an end. When their 
mother sees them, she presents them — one with 
a smack, a second with a dig in the ribs, and the 
third with a twist of the ear. The children go 
off to their hiding-place behind the stove. The 
eldest, Abramtzig, tells a story, and the other two, 
Moshetzig and Dvairke, listen to him. He says 
their mother is right. They ought not to play 
with the cat, because a cat is a wicked animal. 
Abramtzig knows everything. There is nothing 
in the world that he does not know. 

Abramtzig knows everything. He knows there 
is a land far away called America. In America 
they have a lot of relatives and friends. In that 
same America the Jews are well-off and happy — 
may no evil eye rest on them ! Next year, if God 
wills it, they will go off to America — when they 
get tickets. Without tickets no one can go to 
America, because there is a sea. And on the sea 
there is a storm that shakes one to the very soul. 
Abramtzig knows everything. 

He even knows what goes on in the other 


THREE LITTLE HEADS 73 

world. For instance, he knows that in the other 
world there is a Garden of Eden, for Jews, of 
course. In the Garden of Eden there are trees 
with the finest fruits, and rivers of oil. Diamonds 
and rubies are to be found there in the streets. 
Stoop down and pick them up and fill your 
pockets. And there good Jews study the Holy 
Law day and night, and enjoy the holiness. 

That is what Abramtzig tells. And Moshetzig’s 
and Dvairke’s eyes are burning. They envy their 
brother because he knows everything. He knows 
everything, even to what goes on in the heavens. 
Abramtzig swears that twice a year, on the nights 
of ‘ Hashono Rabo 9 and ‘ Shevuous ,’ the sky 
opens. It is true he himself never saw the sky 
opening, because there is no sky near them. But 
his comrades saw it. They swore — may they see 
all that is good ! — And they would not swear to 
a lie. How can one swear to a lie ? It’s a pity 
they have no sky in their street, only a long, 
narrow blue stripe, like a long, narrow blue ribbon. 
What can one see in such a tiny scrap of sky, 
beyond a few stars and the reflection of the moon ? 
In order to prove to his little sister and brother 
that the sky opens, Abramtzig goes over to his 
mother, and pulls her by the skirt. 

“ Mother, is it true that in the very middle of 
6 Shevuous 9 night the sky opens ? ” 

“ I will open your head for you.” 

When he got no satisfaction from his mother, 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


74 


Abramtzig waited for his father, who had gone 
off to the market with a treasure of boxes. 

44 Children, guess what present father will 
bring us from the market,” said Abramtzig. And 
the children tried to guess what their father would 
bring them from the market. They counted on 
their fingers everything that was in the market — 
everything that an eye could see, and a heart 
desire — cakes and buns and sweets. But no one 
guessed aright. And I am afraid you will not 
guess aright either. Peisa the box-maker brought 
from the market this time neither cakes, nor buns 
nor sweets. He brought the children grass — 
curious, long, sweet- smelling grass. 

And all three children gathered around their 
father. 

“ Father, what is it — that ? ” 

44 It is grass.” 

44 What is grass ? ” 

44 It is a bunch of greens for 4 Shevuous 
Jews need grass for 4 Shevuous .’ ” 

44 Where do they get it, father ? ” 

44 Where do they get it ? H’m ! They buy it. 
They buy it in the market,” said their father. 
And he strewed the green, sweet-smelling grass 
over the freshly-swept floor. And he was de- 
lighted it was green and smelt sweet. He said 
to the mother gaily, as is his way : 

44 Pessa, good 4 Yom tov ’ to you ! ” 

44 Good luck ! A new thing ! The young 


THREE LITTLE HEADS 75 

devils will now have something to make a mess 
with,” replied the mother, crossly, as is her way. 
And she gave one of the children a smack, the 
second a dig in the ribs, and the third a twist of 
the ear. She is never satisfied, always cross, and 
always sour, exactly the opposite of father. 

The three pretty heads looked at the mother, 
and at the father, and at one another. The 
moment their parents turned away, they threw 
themselves on the floor, and put their faces to the 
sweet-smelling grass. They kissed it — the green 
grass that Jews need for 1 Shevuous ,’ and which 
is sold at the market. 

Everything is to be found at the market, even 
greens. The father buys everything. Jews want 
everything, even greens — even greens. 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 


On the eve of * Shevuous? I induced my mother — 
peace be unto her ! — to let me go off outside the 
town, by myself, to gather greens for the Festival. 

And my mother let me go off alone to gather 
the greens for the Festival. May she have a bright 
Paradise for that ! 

A real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by 
one’s self, without a companion, and without a 
single argument. I was alone, free as a bird, in 
the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole 
of the blue cap called “ the sky.” For me alone 
shone the beautiful queen of the day, the sun. 
For my sake there came together, here in the big 
field, all the singers and warblers and dancers. For 
my sake there was spread before me the row of tall 
sunflowers, and the delicate growths were scattered 
all over the field by a benevolent nature. No one 
bothered me. No one prevented me from doing 
what I liked. No one saw me but God. And I 
could do what I liked. If I liked I might sing. 
If I liked I might shout and scream at the top of 
my voice. If I liked I might make a horn with my 
hands, and blow out a melody. If I liked I might 
76 


77 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 


roll on the green grass just as I was, curling myself 
up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give me 
orders ? And whom would I pay heed to ? I was 
free — I was free. 

The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the 
sky so clear, the field so green, the grass so fresh, 
my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful that I forgot 
completely I was a stranger in the field, and had 
merely come out to cut green boughs for 4 Shevuous .’ 
I imagined I was a prince, and the whole field that 
my eyes rested on, and everything in the field, and 
even the blue sky above it — all were mine. I 
owned everything, and could do what I liked with 
it — I, and no one else. And like an overlord who 
had complete control of everything, I longed to 
show my power, my strength, my authority — all 
that I could and would do. 

First of all I was displeased with the tall giants 
with the yellow hats — the sunflowers. Suddenly 
they appeared to me as my enemies. And all the 
other plants with and without stalks, the beans and 
beanstalks, were enemies too. They were the 
Philistines that had settled on my ground. Who 
had sent for them ? And those thick green plants 
lying on the ground, with huge green heads — the 
cabbages, what are they doing here ? They will 
only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. 
Let them go in£o the earth. I do not want them. 
Angry thoughts and fierce instincts awoke within 


78 JEWISH CHILDREN 

me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took posses- 
sion of me. I began to avenge myself of my 
enemies. And what a vengeance it was ! 

I had with me all the tools I would need for 
cutting the green bough for the Festival — a pocket- 
knife with two blades, and a sword — a wooden 
sword, but a sharp one. 

This sword had remained with me after ‘ Vag 
Beomer .’ And although I had carried it with me 
when I had gone with my comrades to do battle out- 
side the town, yet I could swear to you, though you 
may believe me without an oath, that the sword 
had not spilled one drop of blood. It was one 
of those weapons that are carried about in times 
of peace. There was not a sign of war. It was 
quiet and peaceful around and about. I carried 
the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of 
peace, one must have in readiness swords and guns 
and rifles and cannon, horses and soldiers. May 
they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to 
say when she was making preserves. 

It is the same all the world over. In a war, 
one aims first at the leaders, the officers. It is 
better still if one can hit the general. After that 
the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore 
you will not be surprised to hear that, first of all, 
I fell upon Goliath the Philistine. I gave him a 
good blow on the head with my sword, and a few 
good blows from the back. And the wicked one 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 79 

was stretched at my feet, full length. After that I 
knocked over a good many more wicked ones. I 
pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them 
to the devil. The short, fat green enemies I 
attacked in a different manner. Wherever I could, 
I took the green heads off. The others I trampled 
down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them. 

During a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is 
carried away by excitement, one cuts down every- 
thing that is at hand, right and left. When one 
is spilling blood, one loses one’s self, one does not 
know where one is in the world. At such a time, 
one does not honour old age. One does not care 
about weak women. One has no pity for little 
children. Blood is simply poured out like water. 
. . . When I was cutting down the enemy, I felt 
a hatred and a malice I had never experienced 
before, immediately after I had delivered the first 
blow. The more I killed the more excited I 
became. I urged myself to go on. I was so beside 
myself, so enflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up, 
and destroyed everything before me. I cut about 
me on all sides. Most of all the “ little ones ” 
suffered at my hands — the young peas in the fat 
little pods, the tiny cucumbers that were just 
showing above ground. These excited me by their 
silence and their coldness. And I gave them such a 
share that they would never forget me. I knocked 
off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to atoms, 
beat, murdered, killed. May I know of evil as 


80 JEWISH CHILDREN 

little as I know how I came to be so wicked. 
Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay deep in the 
earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was 
no hiding from me. Little onions and green garlic 
I tore up by the roots. Radishes flew about me 
like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even 
tasted a single bite of anything. I remembered 
the law in the Bible forbidding it. And Jews do 
not plunder. Every minute, when an evil spirit 
came and tempted me to taste a little onion or a 
young garlic, the words of the Bible came into my 
mind. . . . But I did not cease from beating, 
breaking, wounding, and killing and cutting to 
pieces, old and young, poor and rich, big and little, 
without the least mercy. . . . 

On the contrary, I imagined I heard their 
wails and groans and cries for mercy, and I was not 
moved. It was remarkable that I who could not 
bear to see a fowl slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or 
a dog insulted, or a horse whipped — I should be 
such a tyrant, such a murderer. . . . 

“ Vengeance,” I shouted without ceasing, 
“ vengeance. I will have my revenge of you for 
all the Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay 
you for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and 
Portugal, and for the Jews of Morocco. Also for 
the Jews who fell in the past, and those who are 
falling to-day. And for the Scrolls of the Law that 
were torn, and for the . . . Oh ! oh ! oh ! Help ! 
Help ! Who has me by the ear ? ” 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 81 

Two good thumps and two good smacks in the 
face at the one time sobered me on the instant. I 
saw before me a man who, I could have sworn, was 
Okhrim the gardener. 

Okhrim the gardener had for years cultivated 
fields outside the town. He rented a piece of 
ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it melons 
and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes 
and other vegetables. He made a good living in 
this way. How did I know Okhrim ? He used to 
deal with us. That is to say, he used to borrow 
money off my mother every Passover eve, and 
about ‘ Succoth 9 time, he used to begin to pay it back 
by degrees. These payments used to be entered 
on the inside cover of my mother’s prayer-book. 
There was a separate page for Okhrim, and a 
separate account. It was headed in big writing, 
“ Okhrim’ s account.” Under these words came the 
entries : 44 A 4 rouble ’ from Okhrim. Another 4 rouble ’ 
from Okhrim. Two 4 roubles ’ from Okhrim. Half 
a 4 rouble 9 from Okhrim. A sack of potatoes from 
Okhrim,” and so on. ... And though my mother 
was not rich — a widow with children, who lived by 
money-lending — she took no interest from Okhrim. 
He used to repay us in garden-produce, sometimes 
more, sometimes less. We never quarrelled with 
him. 

If the harvest was good, he filled our cellar 
with potatoes and cucumbers to last us all the 


G 


82 JEWISH CHILDREN 

winter. And if the harvest was bad, he used to 
come and plead with my mother : 

64 Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the 
harvest is bad.” 

My mother forgave him, and told him not to 
be greedy next year. 

44 You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may 
trust me,” Okhrim replied. And he kept his word. 
He brought us the first pickings of onions and 
garlic. We had new potatoes and green cucumbers 
before the rich folks. I heard our neighbours say, 
more than once, that the widow was not so badly 
off as she said. 44 See, they bring her the best of 
everything.” Of course, I at once told my mother 
what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses 
on our neighbours. 

44 Salt in their eyes, and stones in their hearts ! 
Whoever begrudges me what I have, let him have 
nothing. I wish them to be in my position next 
year.” 

Naturally, I at once told my neighbours what 
my mother had wished them; and, of course, for 
these words they were enraged against her. They 
called her by a name I was ashamed to hear. . . . 
Naturally I was angry, and at once told my mother 
of it. My mother gave me two smacks and told 
me to give up carrying 44 6 Purim ’ presents” from one 
to the other. The smacks pained, and the words 
44 ‘ Purim 9 presents ” gnawed at my brain. I could 
not understand why she said 44 ‘ Purim ’ presents.” 


83 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 


I used to rejoice when I saw Okhrim from the 
distance, in his high boots and his thick, white, 
warm, woollen pellisse which he wore winter and 
summer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing 
us a sackful of garden produce. And I flew into 
the kitchen to tell my mother the news that Okhrim 
was coming. 

I must confess that there was a sort of secret 
love between Okhrim and myself — a sort of sympathy 
that could not be expressed in words. We rarely 
spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not 
understand his language, that is to say, I under- 
stood his but he did not understand mine. Secondly, 
I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim ? 
I had to ask my mother to be our interpreter. 

44 Mother, ask him why he does not bring me 
some grapes.” 

44 Where is he to get them ? There are no 
grapes growing in a vegetable garden.” 

44 Why are there no grapes in a vegetable 
garden ? ” 

44 Because vine trees do not grow with 
vegetables.” 

44 Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables ? ” 

44 Why — why — why ? You are a fool,” cried 
my mother, and gave me a smack in the face. 

44 Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child,” said 
Okhrim, defending me.” 

That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And 


84 JEWISH CHILDREN 

it was in his hands I found myself that day when 
I waged war against the vegetables. 

This is what I believe took place: When 
Okhrim came up and saw his garden in ruins, he 
could not at once understand what had happened. 
When he saw me swinging my sword about me on 
all sides, he ought to have realised I was a terrible 
being, an evil spirit, a demon, and crossed himself 
several times. But when he saw that it was a 
Jewish boy who was fighting so vigorously, and 
with a wooden sword, he took hold of me by the 
ear with so much force that I collapsed, fell to 
the ground, and screamed in a voice unlike my 
own : 

“ Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! Who is pulling me by the 
ear ? ” 

It was only after Okhrim had given me a few 
good thumps and several resounding smacks that 
we encountered each other’s eyes and recognised 
one another. We were both so astonished that 
we were speechless. 

“ Mrs. Abraham’s boy ! ” cried Okhrim, and he 
crossed himself. He began to realise the ruin I had 
brought on his garden. He scrutinised each bed 
and examined each little stick. He was so over־ 
come that the tears filled his eyes. ‘He stood 
facing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only 
one solitary question : 

46 Why have you done this to me ? ” 

It was only then I realised the mischief I had 


GREENS FOR SHEVUOUS 85 

done, and whom I had done it to. I was so amazed 
at myself that I could only repeat : 

״ Why ? Why ? ” 

“ Come,” said Okhrim, and took me by the hand. 

I was bowed to the earth with fear. I imagined 
he was going to make an end of me. But Okhrim 
did not touch me. He only held me so tightly by 
the hand that my eyes began to bulge from my 
head. He brought me home to my mother, told 
her everything, and left me entirely in her hands. 

Need I tell you what I got from my mother ? 
Need I describe for you her anger, and her fright, 
and how she wrung her hands when Okhrim told 
her in detail all that had taken place in his garden, 
and of all the damage I had done to his vegetables ? 
Okhrim took his stick and showed my mother how 
I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had 
smashed and broken, and trampled down everything 
with my feet, pulled the little potatoes out of the 
ground, and torn the tops off the little onions and 
the garlic that were just showing above the earth. 

44 And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. 
Abraham — why ? ” 

Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck 
in his throat and choked him. 

I must tell you the real truth, children. I 
would rather Okhrim with the strong arms had 
beaten me, than have got what I did from my 
mother, before ‘ ShevuousS and what the teacher 


86 JEWISH CHILDREN 

gave me after c Shevuous\ ־ . . And the shame of it 
all. I was reminded of it all the year round by the 
boys at ‘ Cheder .’ They gave me a nickname — 
44 The Gardener.” I was Yossel “ the gardener.” 

This nickname stuck to me almost until the day 
I was married. 

That is how I went to gather greens for 
4 Shevuous 


ANOTHER PAGE FROM “THE SONG 
OF SONGS ” 

“ Quicker, Busie, quicker ! ״ I said to her the day 
before the ‘ Shevuous I took her by the hand, and 
we went quickly up the hill. “ The day will not 
stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such 
a high hill. After the hill we have another stream. 
Over the stream there are some boards — a little 
bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the 
boards shake and tremble. On the other side of 
the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden — 
over there begins my real property.״ 

“ Your property ? ״ 

“ I mean the Levada — a big field that stretches 
away and away, without a beginning and without 
an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled 
with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little 
red nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The 
most fragrant spices in the world are there. I have 
trees there beyond counting, tall many-branched 
trees. I have a little hill there that I sit on when I 
like. Or else, by pronouncing the Holy Name, I 
can rise up and fly away like an eagle, across the 
clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts 
87 


88 JEWISH CHILDREN 

until I come to the other side of the mountain of 
darkness.” 

44 And from there,” puts in Busie, 44 you walk 
seven miles until you come to a little stream.” 

44 No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of 
the trees, and after that I come to the little stream.” 

“You swim across the water, and count seven 
times seven.” 

“ And there appears before me a little old man 
with a long beard.” 

“ He asks you : 4 What is your desire ? ’ ” 

“ I say to him : 4 Bring me the Queen’s 

daughter.’ ” 

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down 
the hill. I run after her. 

44 Busie, why are you running off ? ” 

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She 
likes the story I told her excepting the part about 
the Queen’s daughter. 

You have not forgotten who Busie is ? I told 
you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell 
you again. 

I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. 
He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two 
horses, and a little child. The mill was neglected ; 
the horses were sold ; the widow married again, and 
went away, somewhere far; and the child was 
brought to us. This child was Busie. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! Everybody thinks that Busie 


A PAGE FROM “ THE SONG OF SONGS ” 89 

and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother 
“ mother,” and my father “ father.” And we two 
live together like sister and brother, and love one 
another, like sister and brother. 

Like sister and brother ? Then why is Busie 
ashamed before me ? 

It happened once that we two were left alone 
in the house — we two by ourselves in the whole 
house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My 
father had gone to the synagogue to recite the 
mourners’ prayer after my dead brother Benny, and 
my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie 
and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. 
Busie likes me to tell her stories — fine. stories of 
4 Cheder ,’ or from the “ Arabian Nights.” She 
crept close to me, and put her hand into mine. 

“ Tell me something, Shemak, tell me.” 

Softly fell the night around us. The shadows 
crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, 
and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see 
one another’s face. I felt her hand trembling. I 
heard her little heart beating. I saw her eyes 
shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand 
from mine. 

“ What is it, Busie ? ” 

“ We must not.” 

“ What must we not ? ” 

44 Hold each other’s hands.” 

44 Why not ? Who told you that ? ” 

4 4 1 know it myself.” 


90 JEWISH CHILDREN 

4 4 Are we strangers ? Are we not sister and 
brother ? ” 

44 Oh, if we were sister and brother,” cried Busie. 
And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from 
the 44 Song of Songs,” 44 O that thou wert as my 
brother.” 

It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always 
think of the 44 Song of Songs.” 

Where was I ? I was telling you of the eve of 
the 4 Shevuous .’ Well, we ran down hill, Busie in 
front, I after her. She is angry with me because 
of the Queen’s daughter. She likes all my stories 
excepting the one about the Queen’s daughter. 
But Busie’ s anger need not worry one. It does not 
last long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She 
is again looking up at me with her great, bright, 
thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says 
to me : 

44 Shemak, oh, Shemak ! Just look ! What a 
sky ! You do not see what is going on all around us.” 

44 1 see, little fool. Why should I not see ? I 
see a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear 
the birds piping and twittering as they fly over our 
heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little 
birds are ours too — everything is ours, ours, ours. 
Give me your hand, Busie.” 

No, she will not give me her hand. She is 
ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me ? 
Why does she grow red ? 


A PAGE FROM “ THE SONG OF SONGS ” 91 


44 There,” says Busie to me — 44 over there, on 
the other side of the bridge.” And I imagine she 
is repeating the words of the Shulamite in the 
44 Song of Songs.” 

44 Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the 
field ; let us lodge in the villages. 

Let us get up early to the vineyards ; let us see 
if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, 
and the pomegranates bud forth.” 

And we are at the little bridge. 


The stream flows ; the frogs croak ; the boards 
of the little bridge are shaking. Busie is afraid. 

44 Ah, Busie, you are a Why are you afraid, 

little fool ? Hold on to me. Or, let us take hold 
of one another, you of me, and I of you. See ? 
That’s right — that’s right.” 

No more little bridge. 

We still cling to one another, as we walk along. 
We are alone in this Garden of Eden. Busie holds 
me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I 
imagine she is talking to me in the words from the 
44 Song of Songs ” : 

44 My beloved is mine, and I am his.” 

The Levada is big. It stretches away without 
a beginning and without an end. It is covered with 
a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, 
and nailed down with red nails. It gives out a 
delicious odour — the most fragrant spices in 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


92 


the world are there. We walked along, embraced — 
we two alone in the Garden of Eden. 

“ Shemak,” says Busie to me, looking straight 
into my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, “ when 
shall we start gathering the green boughs for the 
4 Shevuous ’ ? ײ 

“ The day is long enough, little fool,” I say to 
her. I am on fire. I do not know where to look 
first, whether at the blue sky, or the green fields, 
or over there, at the end of the world, where the sky 
has become one with the earth. Or shall I look at 
Busie’s shining face — into her large beautiful eyes 
that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as 
the night ? Her eyes are always dreamy. A 
deep sorrow lies hidden within them. They are 
veiled by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. 
I am acquainted with the cause of her melancholy. 
She has a great grief in her heart. She is pained 
because her mother married a stranger, and went 
away from her for ever and ever, as if she had been 
nothing to her. In my home her mother’s name 
must not be mentioned. It is as if Busie had never 
had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my 
father is her father. They love her as if she were 
their own child. They fret over her, and give her 
everything that her heart desires. There is nothing 
too dear for Busie. She wanted to go with me to 
gather green boughs for the Festival decorations 
(I told her to ask it), and my father said to my 
mother : 


A PAGE FROM “ THE SONG OF SONGS 93 ײ 

“ What do you think ? ” He looked over his 
silver spectacles, and stroked the silver white 
hair of his beard. And there went on an argument 
between my father and mother about our going off 
outside the town to gather green boughs for the 
4 ShevuousS 

Father : 44 What do you say ? ” 

Mother : 4 4 What do you say ? ” 

Father : 44 Shall we let them go ? ” 

Mother : 44 Why should we not let them go ? ” 
Father : 44 Do I say we should not ? ” 

Mother : 44 What then are you saying ? ” 

Father : 44 1 am saying that we should let them 
go.” 

Mother : 44 Why should they not go ? ” 

And so forth. I know what is worrying them. 
About twenty times my mother warned me, my 
father repeating the words after her, that there 
is a bridge to be crossed, and under the little 
bridge there is a water — a stream, a stream, a 
stream. 

We, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little 
bridge and the river, the stream. We are going 
across the broad free Levada, under the blue, open 
sky. We run across the green field, fall and roll 
about on the sweet-smelling grass. We get up, 
fall again, and roll about again, and yet again. We 
have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the 
Festival decorations. I take Busie over the length 


94 JEWISH CHILDREN 

and breadth of the Levada. I show off before her 
with my property. 

“ Do you see those trees ? Do you see this 
sand ? Do you see that little hill ? ״ 

“ Are they all yours ? ” asks Busie. Her eyes 
are laughing. I am annoyed because she laughs 
at me. She always laughs at me. I get sulky and 
turn away from her for a moment. Seeing that I 
am sulky, she goes in front of me, looks into my 
eyes, takes my hand, and says to me : “ Shemak 1 ” 
My sulks are gone and all is forgotten. I take her 
hand and lead her to my hill, there where I sit 
always, every summer. If I like I sit down, and 
if I like I rise up with the help of the Lord, by 
pronouncing His Holy Name. And I fly off like 
an eagle, above the clouds, over fields and woods, 
over seas and deserts. 

We sit on the hill, Busie and I. (We have not 
yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival.) 
We tell stories. That is to say, I tell stories, and 
she listens. I tell her what will happen at some 
far, far off time. When I am a man and she is a 
woman we will get married. We will both rise 
up, by pronouncing the Holy Name, and travel the 
whole world. First we will go to all the countries 
that Alexander the Great was in. Then we will 
run over to the Land of Israel. We will go to the 
Hills of Spices, fill our pockets with locust-beans, 
figs, dates, and olives, and fly off further and still 


A PAGE FROM 44 THE SONG OF SONGS ” 95 

further. And everywhere we will play a different 
sort of trick, for no one will see us. 

44 Will no one see us ? ” asks Busie, catching 
hold of my hand. 

44 No one — no one. We shall see every one, but 
no one will see us.” 

44 In that case, I have something to ask you.” 

44 A request ? ” 

44 A little request.” 

But I know her little request — to fly off to where 
her mother is, and play a little trick on her step- 
father. 

44 Why not?” I say to her. 44 With the 
greatest of pleasure. You may leave it to me, 
little fool. I can do something which they will 
not forget in a hurry.” 

44 Not them, him alone,” pleads Busie. But I 
do not give in so readily. When I get into a 
temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her 
for what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman ? 
The idea of marrying another man and going off 
with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child 
behind, and never even writing a letter ! Did 
any one ever hear of such a wrong ? 

I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as 
if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late. 
Busie had covered her face with her two hands. 
Was she crying ? I could have torn myself to 
pieces. What good had it done me to open her 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


96 


wound by speaking of her mother ? In my own 
heart I called myself every bad name I could 
think of : 64 Horse, Beast, Ox, Calf, Good-for- 

nothing, Long-tongue.” I drew closer to Busie, 
and took hold of her hand. I was about to 
say to her, in the words of the “ Song of 
Songs ” : 

“ Let me see thy countenance, let me hear 
thy voice.” 

Suddenly — How do my father and mother 
come here ? 

My father’s silver spectacles shine from the 
distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard 
are spread out on the breeze. My mother is 
waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, 
remain sitting. We are like paralysed. What 
are my parents doing here ? 

They had come to see what we were doing. 
They were afraid some accident had befallen us 
— God forbid ! Who could tell ? A little bridge, 
a water, a stream, a stream, a stream ! Curious 
father and mother. 

“ And where are your green boughs ? ” 

4 4 What green boughs ? ” 

44 The green boughs that you went to gather 
for the ‘ Shevuous ’ decorations.” 

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood 
her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in 
the words of the 44 Song of Songs ” : 


A PAGE FROM “ THE SONG OF SONGS ” 97 

“ £ O that thou wert as my brother ! ’ . . . Why 
are you not my brother ? ” 

“Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for 
4 Shevuous ’ somehow,” says my father with a smile. 
And the silver strands of his silver-white beard 
glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. 
“ Thank God the children are well, and that no ill 
has befallen them.” 

“ Praised be the Lord ! ” replies my mother to 
him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of 
her shawl. And they are both glad. They 
seem to grow broader than long with delight. 

Curious, curious father and mother ! 


ii 


A PITY FOP THE LIVING 

“ If you were a good boy, you would help us to 
scrape the horse-radish until we are ready with the 
fish for the holy festival.” 

That was what my mother said to me on the 
eve of ‘ Shevuous ,’ about mid-day. She was helping 
the cook to prepare the fish for the supper. The 
fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they 
were put into a clay basin and covered with water 
they were still struggling. 

More than any of the others there struggled a 
little carp with a broad back, and a round head 
and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had 
a strong desire to get back into the river. It 
struggled hard. It leaped out of the basin, flapped 
its tail, and splashed the water right into my face. 
“ Little boy, save me ! Little boy, save me ! ” 

I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task 
of scraping the horse-radish for the supper. I 
thought within myself, “ Poor little fish. I can do 
nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. 
You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, 
put in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the 
fire, and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and 
simmered.” 


98 


A PITY FOR THE LIVING 99 

“ It’s a pity,” I said to my mother. “ It’s a 
pity for the living.” 

44 Of whom is it a pity ? ” 

44 It’s a pity of the little fishes.” 

44 Who told you that ? ” 

44 The teacher.” 

44 The teacher ? ” 

She exchanged glances with the cook who was 
helping her, and they both laughed aloud. 

44 You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater 
fool. Ha ! ha ! Scrape the horse-radish, scrape 
away.” 

That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me 
that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters 
too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than 
I — that was news to me. 


I have a comrade, Pinalle, the * Shochefs ’ son. 
I was at his house one day, and I saw how a little 
girl carried in a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with 
a string. My comrade’s father, the ‘ Shochet? was 
asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited. 
The cock, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the 
girl’s arms. He drove his strong feet into her, 
pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud 
44 Cock-a-doodle-doo ! ” protested as much as he 
could. But the girl was no weakling either. 
She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm 
and dug her elbows into him, saying : 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


100 


“Be still, you wretch ! ” 

And he obeyed and remained silent. 

When the ‘Shochet 5 woke up, he washed his hands 
and took out his knife. He motioned to have the 
bird handed to him. I imagined that the cock 
changed colour. He must have thought that he 
was going to be freed to race back to his hens, to 
the corn and the water. But it was not so. The 
‘ Socket' turned him round, caught him between 
his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with 
the other plucked out a few little feathers, pro- 
nounced a blessing-heck ! the knife was drawn across 
his throat. He was cast away. I thought he 
would fall to pieces. 

“ Pinalle, your father is a heathen,” I said to 
my comrade. 

“ Why is he a heathen ? ” 

“ He has in him no pity for the living.” 

“ I did not know you were so clever,” said my 
comrade, and he pulled a long nose right into my 
face. 

Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called 
“ Fruma with the little eye.” She is a girl without 
a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for 
having run away with a little liver from the board. 
Afterwards, when she counted the fowls and 
the livers, it turned out that she had made a 
mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, 
and, of course, seven little livers, and there were 


101 


A PITY FOR THE LIVING 


only six. And if there were only six fowls there 
could be only six little livers. Marvellous ! She 
had accused the cat wrongly. 

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and 
apologized to the cat. But it appears she forgot 
all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about it. 
A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking 
herself as if nothing had happened. It’s not for 
nothing that people say : “ A cat’s brains ! ” 

But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I 
said to the cook : “You beat the cat for nothing. 
You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the 
living. The Lord will punish you.” 

“ Will you go away, or else I’ll give it you 
across the face with the towel.” 

That is what “ Fruma with the little eye ” said 
to me. And she added : 

“ Lord Almighty ! Wherever in the world do 
such children come from ? ” 

It was all about a dog that had been scalded with 
boiling water by the same “ Fruma with the little 
eye.” Ah, how much pain it caused the dog. It 
squealed, howled and barked with all its might, 
filling the world with noise. The whole town 
came together at the sound of his howling, and 
laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town 
barked out of sympathy, each from his own kennel, 
and each after his own fashion. One might think 
that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, 


102 JEWISH CHILDREN 

when the scalded dog had finished howling, he 
moaned and muttered and licked his sores, and 
growled softly. My heart melted within me. I 
went over to him and was going to fondle him. 

“ Here, Sirko ! ” 

The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as 
if he had been scalded again, took his tail between 
his legs and ran away — away. 

“ Shah ! Sirko ! ” I said, trying to soothe him 
with soft words. “ Why do you run away like 
that, fool ? Am I doing you any harm ? ” 

A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He 
knows nothing of pity for the living. 

My father saw me running after the dog and he 
pounced down on me. 

“ Go into ‘ Cheder ,’ dog-beater.” 

Then I was the dog-beater. 

It was all about two little birds — two tiny 
little birds that two boys, one big and one small, 
had killed. When the two little birds dropped 
from the tree they were still alive. Their feathers 
were ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and 
trembled in every limb. 

“ Get up, you hedgehog,” said the big boy to 
the small boy. And they took the little birds in 
their hands and beat their heads against the 
tree-trunk, until they died. 

I could not contain myself, but ran over to the 
two boys. 


A PITY FOR THE LIVING 103 

“ What are you doing here ? ” I asked. 

44 What’s that to do with you ? ” they demanded 
in Russian. 44 What harm is it ? ” they asked 
calmly. 44 They are no more than birds, ordinary 
little birds.” 

44 And if they are only birds ? Have you no 
pity for the living — no mercy for the little birds ? ” 

The boys looked curiously at one another, 
and as if they had already made up their minds 
in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me. 

When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, 
and my father gave me the good beating I deserved. 

44 Ragged fool ! ” cried my mother. 

I forgave her for the 44 ragged fool,” but why 
did she also beat me ? 

Why was I beaten ? Does not our teacher 
himself tell us that all creatures are dear to the 
Lord ? Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, 
he says, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, 
that is an evil spirit, must not be killed either, he 
tells us emphatically. 

44 If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord 
Himself would slay him.” 

Then comes the question : Very well, if that 
is so, then why do the people slaughter cows and 
calves and sheep and fowls every day of the week ? 

And not only cows and other animals and fowls, 
but do not men slaughter one another ? At the 
time when we had the 4 Pogrom ,’ did not men throw 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


104 


down little children from the tops of houses ? 
Did they not kill our neighbours’ little girl ? Her 
name was Peralle. And how did they kill her ? 

Ah, how I loved that little girl. And how that 
little girl loved me ! “ Uncle Bebebe,” she used 

to call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she 
used to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, 
sweet little fingers. Because of her, because of 
Peralle, every one calls me “ Uncle Bebebe.” 

“ Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take 
you in hand.” 

י • « • c 

Peralle was a sickly child. That is to say, in 
the ordinary way she was all right, but she could 
not walk, neither walk nor stand, only sit. They 
used to carry her into the open and put her sitting 
in the sand, right in the sun. She loved the sun, 
loved it terribly. I used to carry her about. She 
used to clasp me around the neck with her small, 
thin, sweet little fingers, and nestle her whole body 
close to me — closer and closer. She would put her 
head on my shoulder. “ I love Uncle Bebebe.” 

Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget 
Uncle Bebebe to this day. When she sees me, she 
says she is again reminded of her Peralle. 

My mother is angry with her for weeping. 

“ We must not weep,” says my mother. “ We 
must not sin. We must forget— forget.” 

That’s what my mother says. She interrupts 
Krenni in the middle and drives me off. 


A PITY FOR THE LIVING 105 

“ If you don’t get into our eyes, we won’t 
remember that which we must not.” 

Ha ! ha ! How is it possible to forget ? 
When I think of that little girl the tears come into 
my eyes of their own accord — of their own accord. 

“ See, he weeps again, the wise one,” cries 
44 Fruma with the little eye ” to my mother. My 
mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud. 

“ The horse-radish has gone into your eyes. 
The devil take you. It’s a hard piece of horse- 
radish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes. 
Woe is me ! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes, 
foolish boy. And your nose, too, wipe at the same 
time your nose, your nose.” 


THE TABERNACLE 

There are people who have never been taught 
anything, and know everything, have never been 
anywhere, and understand everything, have never 
given a moment’s thought to anything, and compre- 
hend everything. 

44 Blessed hands ” is the name bestowed on these 
fortunate beings. The world envies, honours and 
respects them. 

There was such a man in our town, Kassrillevka. 
They called him Moshe-for-once, because, what- 
ever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed : 

44 It is such-and-such a thing for once.” 

A new cantor in the synagogue — he is a cantor 
for once. 

Some one is carrying a turkey for the Passover — 
it is a turkey for once. 

44 There will be a fine frost to-morrow.” 

44 A fine frost for once.” 

44 There were blows exchanged at the meeting.” 

44 Good blows for once.” 

44 Oh, Jews, I am a poor man.” 

44 A poor man for once.” 

106 


107 


THE TABERNACLE 


And so of everything. 

Moshe was a I cannot tell you what 

Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what he lived by 
it would be hard to say. He lived as many thou- 
sands of Jews live in Kassrillevka — tens of thou- 
sands. He hovered around the overlord. That is, 
not the overlord himself, but the gentlefolks that 
were with the overlord. And not around the 
gentlefolks themselves, but around the Jews that 
hovered around the gentlefolks who were with the 
overlord. And if he made a living — that is another 
story. Moshe־for־once was a man who hated 
to boast of his good fortune, or to bemoan his ill- 
fortune. He was always jolly. His cheeks were 
always red. One end of his moustache was longer 
than the other. His hat was always on one side 
of his head ; and his eyes were always smiling and 
kindly. He never had any time, but was always 
ready to walk ten miles to do any one a favour. 

That’s the sort of a man Moshe־for־once was. 

There wasn’t a thing in the world Moshe-for- 
once could not make — a house, or a clock, or a 
machine, a lamp, a spinning-top, a tap, a mirror, a 
cage, and what not. 

True, no one could point to the houses, the 
clocks, or the machines that came from his hands ; 
but every one was satisfied Moshe could make them. 
Every one said that if need be, Moshe could turn 
the world upside down. The misfortune was that 


108 JEWISH CHILDREN 

he had no tools. I mean the contrary. That was 
his good fortune. Through this, the world was not 
turned upside down. That is, the world remained 
a world. 

That Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle. 
When a lock went wrong they came to Moshe. 
When the clock stopped, or the tap of the ‘ Samovar ’ 
went out of order, or there appeared in a house 
blackbeetles, or bugs, or other filthy creatures, it 
was always Moshe who was consulted. Or when a 
fox came and choked the fowls, whose advise was 
asked ? It was always and ever Moshe־for־once. 

True, the broken lock was thrown away, the 
clock had to be sent to a watchmaker, and the 
4 Samovar ’ to the copper-smith. The blackbeetles, 
and bugs and other filthy things were not at all 
frightened of Moshe. And the fox went on doing 
what a fox ought to do. Rut Moshe-for-once still 
remained the same Moshe-for-once he had been. 
After all, he had blessed hands ; and no doubt he 
had something in him. A world cannot be mad. 
In proof of this— why do the people not come to 
you or me with their broken locks, or broken 
clocks, or for advice how to get rid of foxes, or black- 
beetles and bugs and other filthy things ? All the 
people in the world are not the same. And it 
appears that talent is rare. 

We became very near neighbours with this 
Moshe-for-once. We lived in the same house with 


THE TABERNACLE 109 

him, under the one roof. I say became, because, 
before that, we lived in our own house. The wheels 
of fortune suddenly turned round for us. Times 
grew bad. We did not wish to be a burden to any 
one. We sold our house, paid our debts, and 
moved into Hershke Mamtzes’ house. It was an 
old ruin, without a garden, without a yard, without 
a paling, without a body, and without life. 

“ Well, it’s a hut,” said my mother, pretending 
to be merry. But I saw tears in her eyes. 

“ Do not sin,” said my father, who was black 
as the earth. “ Thank God for this.” 

Why for 4 4 this, ”Ido not know. Perhaps because 
we were not living on the street ? I would rather 
have lived on the street than in this house, with 
strange boys and girls whom I did not know, nor 
wish to know, with their yellow hair, and their 
running noses, with their thin legs and fat bellies. 
When they walked they waddled like ducks. 
They did nothing but eat, and when any one 
else was eating, they stared right into his 
mouth. 

I was very angry with the Lord for having 
taken our house from us. I was not so sorry for 
the house as for the Tabernacle we had there. It 
stood from year to year. It had a roof that could 
be raised and lowered, and a beautiful carved ceiling 
of green and yellow boards, made into squares 
with a “ Shield of David ” in the middle. True, 
kind friends told us to hope on, for we should one 


110 JEWISH CHILDREN 

day buy the house back, or the Lord would help 
us to build another, and a better, and a bigger and a 
handsomer house than the one we had had to sell. 
But all this was cold comfort to us. I heard the 
same sort of words when I broke my tin watch, 
accidentally, of course, into fragments. My 
mother smacked me, and my father wiped my eyes, 
and promised to buy me a better, and bigger and 
handsomer watch than the one I broke. But 
the more my father praised the watch he was going 
to buy for me, the more I cried for the other, the old 
watch. When my father was not looking, my 
mother wept silently for the old house. And my 
father sighed and groaned. A black cloud settled 
on his face, and his big white forehead was covered 
with wrinkles. 

I thought it was very wrong of the Father of 
the Universe to have taken our house from us. 

“ I ask you — may your health increase ! — what 
are we going to do with a Tabernacle ? ” asked my 
mother of my father some time before the Feast 
of Tabernacles. 

“You probably mean to ask what are we going 
to do without a Tabernacle ? ” replied my father, 
attempting to jest. I saw that he was distressed. 
He turned away to one side, so that we might not 
see his face, which was covered with a thick black 
cloud. My mother blew her nose to swallow her 
tears. Andjp, looking at them . . . Suddenly 


THE TABERNACLE 111 

my father turned to us with a lively expression on 
his face. 

“ Hush ! We have here a neighbour called 
Moshe.” 

44 Moshe-for-once ? ” asked my mother. And 
I do not know whether she was making fun or was 
in earnest. It seemed she was in earnest, for, half 
an hour later, the three were going about the house, 
father, Moshe, and Hershke Mamtzes, our landlord, 
looking for a spot on which to erect a Tabernacle. 

Hershke Mamtzes’ house was all right. It had 
only one fault. It stood on the street, and had not 
a scrap of yard. It looked as if it had been lost 
in the middle of the road. Somebody was walking 
along and lost a house, without a yard, without 
a roof, the door on the other side of the street, 
like a coat with the waist in front and the buttons 
underneath. If you talk to Hershke, he will bore 
you to death about his house. He will tell you 
how he came by it, how they wanted to take it 
from him, and how he fought for it, until it remained 
with him. 

44 Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle, 
‘ Beb ’ Moshe ? ” asked father of Moshe-for-once. 
And Moshe-for-once, his hat on the back of his head, 
was lost in thought, as if he were a great architect 
formulating a big plan. He pointed with his hand 
from here to there, and from there to here. He 
tried to make us understand that if the house were 


112 JEWISH CHILDREN 

not standing in the middle of the street, and if it 
had had a yard, we would have had two walls 
ready made, and he could have built us a Tabernacle 
in a day. Why do I say in a day ? In an hour. 
But since the house had no yard, and we needed 
four walls, the Tabernacle would take a little longer 
to build. But for that again, we would have a 
Tabernacle for once. The main thing was to get 
the material. 

“ There will be materials. Have you the tools? ” 
asked Hershka. 

“ The tools will be found. Have you the 
timber ? ” asked Moshe. 

“ There is timber. Have you the nails ? ” 
asked Hershke. 

“ Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs ? ” 
asked Moshe. 

“ Somehow, you are a little too so-so to-day,” 
said Hershke. 

“ A little too what ? ” asked Moshe. They 
looked each other straight in the eyes, and both 
burst out laughing. 

When Hershke Mamtzes brought the first few 
boards and beams, Moshe said that, please God, 
it would be a Tabernacle for once. ׳ I wondered 
how he was going to make a Tabernacle out of the 
few boards and beams. I begged of my mother 
to let me stand by whilst Moshe was working. And 
Moshe not only let me stand by him, but even let 


THE TABERNACLE 113 

me be his assistant. I was to hand him what he 
wanted, and hold things for him. 

Of course this put me into the seventh heaven 
of delight. Was it a trifle to help build the Taber- 
nacle ? I was of great assistance to Moshe. I 
moved my lips when he hammered; went for meals 
when he went ; shouted at the other children not 
to hinder us; handed Moshe the hammer when he 
wanted the chisel, and the pincers when he wanted 
a nail. Any other man would have thrown the 
hammer or pincers at my head for such help, but 
Moshe-for-once had no temper. No one had ever 
had the privilege of seeing him angry. 

“ Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good 
as any sin.” 

And because I was greatly absorbed in the work, 
I did not notice how and by what miracle the 
Tabernacle came into being. 

“ Come and see the Tabernacle we have built,” 
I said to father, and dragged him out of the house 
by the tails of his coat. My father was delighted 
with our work. He looked at Moshe with a smile, 
and said, pointing to me : 

“ Had you at any rate a little help from him ? ” 

“ It was a help, for once,” replied Moshe, 
looking up at the roof ,of the Tabernacle with 
anxious eyes. 

“ If only our Hershke brings us the fir-boughs, 
it will be a Tabernacle for once.” 


ו 


114 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Hershke Mamtzes worried us about the fir- 
boughs. He put off going for them from day to 
day. The day before the Festival he went off and 
brought back a cart-load of thin sticks, a sort of 
weeds, such as grow on the banks of the river. And 
we began to cover the Tabernacle. That is to say, 
Moshe did the work, and I helped him by driving 
off the goats which had gathered around the fir- 
boughs, as if they were something worth while. 
I do not know what taste they found in the bitter 
green stalks. 

Because the house stood alone, in the middle of 
the street, there was no getting rid of the goats. If 
you drove one off another came up. The second 
was only just got rid of, when the first sprang up 
again. I drove them off with sticks. 

64 Get out of this. Are you here again, foolish 
goats ? Get off.” 

The devil knows how they found out we had 
green fir-boughs. It seems they told one another, 
because there gathered around us all the goats of 
the town. And I, all alone, had to do battle with 
them 

The Lord helped us, and we had all the fir- 
boughs on the roof. The goats remained standing 
around us like fools. They looked up with foolish 
eyes, and stupidly chewed the cud. I had my 
revenge of them, and I said to them : 

“ Why don’t you take the fir-boughs now, 
foolish goats ? ” 


THE TABERNACLE 115 

They must have understood me, for they began 
to go off, one by one, in search of something to 
eat. And we began to decorate the Tabernacle 
from the inside. First of all, we strewed the floor 
with sand ; then we hung on the walls all the wadded 
quilts belonging to the neighbours. Where there 
was no wadded quilt, there hung a shawl, and 
where there was no shawl, there was a sheet or a 
table-cloth. Then we brought out all the chairs 
and tables, the candle-sticks and candles, the 
plates and knives and forks and spoons. And 
each of the three women of the house made the 
blessing over her own candles for the Feast of 
Tabernacles. 

My mother — peace be unto her ! — was a woman 
who loved to weep. The Days of Mourning were her 
Days of Rejoicing. And since we had lost our own 
house, her eyes were not dry for a single minute. 
My father, though he was also fretted, did not like 
this. He told her to fear the Lord, and not sin. 
There were worse circumstances than ours, thank 
God. But now׳, in the Tabernacle, when she was 
blessing the Festival candles, she could cover her 
face with her hands and weep in silence without 
any one knowing it. But I was not to be fooled. 
I could see her shoulders heaving, and the tears 
trickling through her thin white fingers. And 
I even knew what she was weeping for ... It 
was well for her that father was getting ready to go 


116 JEWISH CHILDREN 

to synagogue, putting on his Sabbath coat that was 
tattered, but was still made of silk, and his plaited 
silk girdle. He thrust his hands into his girdle, 
and said to me, sighing deeply : 

“ Come, let us go. It is time we went to syna- 
gogue to pray.” 

I took the prayer-books, and we went off. 
Mother remained at home to pray. I knew what 
she would do — weep. She might weep as much as 
she liked, for she would be alone. And it was so. 
When we came back, and entered the Tabernacle, 
and father started to make the blessing over the 
wine, I looked into her eyes, and they were red, 
and had swollen lids. Her nose was shining. 
Nevertheless, she was to me beautiful as Rachel 
or Abigail, or the Queen of Sheba, or Queen 
Esther. Looking at her, I was reminded of all 
our beautiful Jewish women with whom I had just 
become acquainted at * Cheder .’ And looking at 
my mother, with her lovely face that looked lovelier 
above the lovely silk shawl she wore, with her 
large, beautiful, careworn eyes, my heart was filled 
with pain that such lovely eyes should be tear* 
stained always — that such lovely white hands should 
have to bake and cook. And I was angry with the 
Lord because He did not give us a lot of money. 
And I prayed to the Lord to destine me to find a 
treasure of gold and diamonds and brilliants. Or 
let the Messiah come, and we would go back to the 
Land of Israel, where we should all be happy. 


117 


THE TABERNACLE 


This was what I thought. And my imagination 
carried me far, far away, to my golden dreams that 
I would not exchange for all the money in the 
world. And the beautiful Festival prayers, sung 
by my father in his softest and most melodious 
voice, rang in my ears. 

“ Thou hast chosen us above all peoples, 

“ Us has Thou chosen 

“ Of all the nations.” 

Is it a trifle to be God’s chosen people ? To be 
God’s only child ? My heart was glad for the happy 
chosen people. And I imagined I was a prince. 
Yes, a prince. And the Tabernacle was a palace. 
The Divine Holiness rested on it. My mother was 
the beautiful daughter of Jerusalem, the Queen of 
Sheba. And on the morrow we would make the 
blessing over the most beautiful fruit in the world — 
the citron. Ah, who could compare with me ? 
Who could compare with me ? 

After father, Moshe־for־once pronounced the 
blessing over the wine. It was not the same blessing 
as my father’s — but, really not. After him, the 
landlord, Hershke Mamtzes pronounced the blessing 
over the wine. He was a commonplace man, and 
it was a commonplace blessing. We went to wash 
our hands, and we pronounced the blessing over 
the bread. And each of the three women brought 
out the food for her family — fine, fresh, seasoned, 
pleasant, fragrant fish. And each familyjsat around 


118 JEWISH CHILDREN 

its own table. There were many dishes ; a lot 
of people had soup ; a lot of mouths were eating. 
A little wind blew into the Tabernacle, through the 
frail thin walls, and the thin roof of fir-boughs. 
The candles spluttered. Every one was eating 
heartily the delicious Festival supper. And I 
imagined it was not a Tabernacle but a palace — a 
great, big, brilliantly lit־up palace. And we Jews, 
the chosen people, the princes, were sitting in the 
palace and enjoying the pleasures of life. “ It is well 
for you,” little Jews, thought I. 44 No one is so well- 
off as you. No one else is privileged to sit in such 
a beautiful palace, covered with green fir- 
boughs, strewn with yellow sand, decorated with 
the most beautiful tapestries in the world, on the 
tables the finest suppers, and real Festival fish which 
is the daintiest of all dainties. And who speaks 

of ” Suddenly, crash ! The whole roof and the 

fir-boughs are on our heads. One wall after the 
other is falling in. A goat fell from on high, right 
on top of us. It suddenly grew pitch dark. All the 
candles were extinguished. All the tables were over- 
turned. And we all, with the suppers and the crock- 
ery and the goat, were stretched out on the sand. 
The moon shone, and the stars peeped out, and 
the goat jumped up, frightened, and stood on 
its thin legs, stock-still, while it stared at us with 
foolish eyes. It soon marched off, like an insolent 
creature, over the tables and chairs, and over 
our heads, bleating 44 Meh-eh-eh-eh ! ” The candles 


THE TABERNACLE 119 

were extinguished ; the crockery smashed ; the 
supper in the sand ; and we were all frightened to 
death. The women were shrieking, the children 
crying. It was a destruction of everything — a 
real destruction. 

“You built a fine Tabernacle, 5 ’ said Hershke 
Mamtzes to us in such a voice, as if we had had from 
him for building the Tabernacle goodness know how 
much money. “ It was a fine Tabernacle, when 
one goat could overthrow it.” 

“ It was a Tabernacle for once,” replied Moshe- 
for-once. He stood like one beaten, looking up- 
wards, to see whence the destruction had come. 
“ It was a Tabernacle for once.” 

“ Yes, a Tabernacle for once,” repeated Hershke 
Mamtzes, in a voice full of deadly venom. And 
every one echoed his words, all in one voice : 

“ A Tabernacle for once.” 


THE DEAD CITRON 

My name is Leib. When I am called up to read 
the portion of the Law it is by the name of Yehudah- 
Leib. At home, I sign myself Lyef Moishevitch. 
Amongst Germans I am known as Herr Leon. 
Here in England, I am Mr. Leon. When I was a 
child I was called Leibel. At e Cheder ’ I was Leib- 
Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our 
‘ Cheder ’ every boy had a nickname. For instance 
— “ Mottel-Kappotel,” “ Meyer-Dreyer,” “ Mendel- 
Fendel,” “ Chayim-Clayim,” “ Itzig-Shptizig,” 
“ Berel-Tzap.” Did you ever hear such rhymes ? 
That Itzig rhymes with Shpitzig, and Mendel with 
Fendel, and Chayim with Clayim is correct. But 
what has Berrel to do with Tzap, or how does 
Leib rhyme with Obderick ? I did not like my 
nickname. And I fought about it. I got blows 
and thumps and smacks and whacks and pinches 
and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue. 
Because I was the smallest in the 4 Cheder " — the 
smallest and the weakest and the poorest, no one 
defended me. On the contrary, the two rich boys 
tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other 
120 


121 


THE DEAD CITRON 


pulled me by the ear. Whilst the third — a poor 
boy — sang a song to tease me — 

“ Just so ! Just so ! 

Give it to him. 

Punch him. 

Bang him. 

]Elis little limbs. 

His little limbs. 

Just so! Just so! 

At such times I lay quiet as a kitten. And 
when they let me go I went into a corner and 
wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my 
comrades, and was all right again. 

Just a word — whenever you meet the name 
Leibel in this story, you will know it refers to me. 

I am soft as dowh, short and fat. In reality, 
I am not so fat as I look. On the contrary, I am 
rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little 
trousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick wadded 
coat. You see, my mother wants me to be warm. 
She is afraid I might catch cold, God forbid ! 
And she wraps me in cotton-wool from head to 
foot. She believes that cotton-wool is very good 
to wrap a boy in, but must not be used for making 
balls. I provided all the boys with cotton- wool. 
I pulled it out of my trousers and coat until she 
caught me. She beat me, and whacked me, and 
thumped me and pinched me. Rut Leibel went 
on doing what he liked — distributing cotton- wool. 

My face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my 


122 JEWISH CHILDREN 

nose always running. “ Such a nose 1 ” cries my 
mother. “ If he had no nose, he would be all right. 
He would have nothing to freeze in the cold 
weather.״ I often try to picture to myself what 
would happen if I had no nose at all. If people 
had no noses, what would they look like ? Then 

the question is ? But I was going to tell you 

the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered 
off to goodness knows where. I will break off in 
the middle of what I was saying, and go back to 
the story of the dead citron. 

My father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at 
an insurance company’s office for many years. 
He gets five and a half 4 roubles ’ a week. He is 
waiting for a rise fn wages. He says that if he 
gets his rise this year, please God, he will buy a 
citron. But my mother, Basse-Beila, has no 
faith in this. She says the barracks will fall down 
before father will get a rise. 

One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel 
overheard the following conversation between his 
father and his mother. 

He : 64 Though the world turn upside down, 
I must have a citron this year ! ” 

She : “ The world will not turn upside down, 
and you will have no citron.” 

He : “ That’s what you say. But supposing 
I have already been promised something towards 
a citron]? ” 


THE DEAD CITRON 123 

She : 4 4 It will have to be written into the 

books of Jests. In the month called after the 
town of Kreminitz a miracle happened — a bear 
died in the forest. But what then ? If I do 
not believe it, I shall not be a great heretic either.” 

He : 44 You may believe or not. I tell you 
that this Feast of Tabernacles, we shall have a 
citron of our own.” 

She : 44 Amen ! May it be so ! From your 

mouth into God’s ears ! ” 

44 Amen, amen,” repeated Leibel in his heart. 
And he pictured to himself his father coming into 
the synagogue, like a respectable householder, with 
his own citron and his own palm-branch. And 
though Moshe-Yankel is only a clerk, still when 
the men walk around the Ark with their palms 
and their citrons, he will follow them with his 
palm and citron. And Leibel’s heart was full of 
joy. When he came to 4 Cheder ,’ he at once told 
every one that this year his father would have 
his own palm and citron. But no one believed 
him. 

44 What do you say to his father ? ” asked the 
young scamps of one another. 44 Such a man — 
such a beggar amongst beggars desires to have 
a citron of his own. He must imagine it is a 
lemon, or a 4 groschen ’ apple.” 

That was what the young scamps said. And 
they gave Leibel a few good smacks and thumps, 
and punches and digs and pushes. And Leibel 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


124 


began to believe that his father was a beggar 
amongst beggars. And a beggar must have no 
desires. But how great was his surprise when 
he came home and found 4 Reb ’ Henzel sitting at 
the table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing his father. 
In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the 
beautiful perfume of which reached the furthest 
corners of the house. 

The cap which 4 Reb ’ Henzel wore was the sort 
of cap worn in the time of Napoleon the First. 
Over there in France, these caps were long out of 
fashion. But in our village there was still one to 
be found — only one, and it belonged to 4 Reb ’ 
Henzel. The cap was long and narrow. It had 
a slit and a button in front, and at the back two 
tassels. I always wanted these tassels. If the 
cap had fallen into my hands for two minutes — 
only two, the tassels would have been mine. 

4 Reb ’ Henzel had spread out his whole stock* 
in-trade. He took up a citron with his two 
fingers, and gave it to father to examine. 

“Take this citron, ‘Reb' Moshe-Yankel. You 
will enjoy it.” 

“ A good one ? ” asked my father, examining 
the citron on all sides, as one might examine a 
diamond. His hands trembled with joy. 

“ And what a good one,” replied 4 Reb ’ Henzel, 
and the tassels of his cap shook with his laughter. 

Moshe-Yankel played with the citron, smelled 


THE DEAD CITRON 125 

it, and could not take his eyes off it. He called 
over his wife to him, and showed her, with a 
happy smile, the citron, as if he were showing her 
a precious jewel, a priceless gem, a rare antique, 
or an only child — a dear one. 

Basse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand 
slowly to take hold of the citron. But she did 
not get it. 

4 4 Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you 
like.” 

Basse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the 
citron. I was not even allowed to sniff it. I was 
not allowed to go too near it, or even to look 
at it. 

44 He is here, too,” said my mother. 44 Only 
let him go near it, and he will at once bite the top 
off the citron.” 

44 The Lord forbid ! ” cried my father. 

44 The Lord preserve us!” echoed c Reb ’ Henzel. 
And the tassels shook again. He gave father 
some cotton-wool into which he might nest the 
citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every 
corner of the house. The citron was wrapped up 
as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a 
precious gem. And it was placed in a beautiful 
round, carved, painted and decorated wooden 
sugar box. The sugar was taken out, and the 
citron was put in instead, like a beloved guest. 

44 Welcome art thou, 4 Reb 5 citron ! Into the 
box — into the box ! ” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


126 


The box was carefully closed, and placed in 
the glass cupboard. The door was closed over 
on it, and good-bye ! 

“ I am afraid the heathen ” — that was meant 
for me — 44 will open the door, take out the citron, 
and bite its top off,” said my mother. She took 
me by the hand, and drew me away from the 
cupboard. 

Like a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps 
down from a height for it, straightens her back, 
goes round and round, rubbing herself against 
everything, looks into everybody’s eyes, and licks 
herself — in like manner did Leibel, poor thing, go 
round and round the cupboard. He gazed in 
through the glass door, smiled at the box con״ 
taining the citron, until his mother saw him, and 
said to his father that the young scamp wanted 
to get hold of the citron to bite off its top. 

44 To ‘ Cheder ,’ you blackguard ! May you never 
be thought of, you scamp ! ” 

Leibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and 
went off to ‘ Cheder 

The few words his mother had said to his 
father about his biting off the top of the citron 
burned themselves into Leibel’s heart, and ate 
into his bones like a deadly poison. 

The top of the citron buried itself in Leibel’s 
brain. It did not leave his thoughts for a moment. 
It entered his dreams at night, worried him, and 


THE DEAD CITRON 127 

almost dragged him by the hand. “ You do not 
recognize me, foolish boy? It is I — the top of 
the citron.” Leibel turned round on the other 
side, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him 
again. “ Get up, fool. Go and open the cup- 
board, take out the citron, and bite me off. You 
will enjoy yourself.” 

Leibel got up in the morning, washed his 
hands, and began to say his prayers. He took his 
breakfast, and was going off to 4 Clieder Passing 
by, he glanced in the direction of the glass cup- 
board. Through the glass door, he saw the box 
containing the citron. And he imagined the box 
was winking at him. “ Over here, over here, 
little boy.” Leibel marched straight out of the 
house. 

One morning, when Leibel got up, he found 
himself alone in the house. His father had gone 
off to business, his mother had gone to the market. 
The servant was busy in the kitchen. “ Every one 
is gone. There isn’t a soul in the house,” thought 
Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside the 
glass cupboard. He saw the sugar box that held 
the citron. It seemed to be beckoning to him. 
“ Over here, over here, little boy.” Leibel opened 
the glass door softly and carefully, and took out 
the box — the beautiful, round, carved, decorated 
wooden box, and raised the lid. Before he had 
time to lift out the citron, the fragrance of it 
filled his nostrils — the pungent, heavenly odour. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


128 


Before he had time to turn round, the citron was 
in his hand, and the top of it in his eyes. 

“ Do you want to enjoy yourself ? Do you 
want to know the taste of Paradise ? Take and 
bite me off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No 
one will know of it. Not a son of Adam will see 
you. No bird will tell on you.” 

You want to know what happened ? You 
want to know whether I bit the top off the citron, 
or held myself back from doing it ? I should like 
to know what you would have done in my place 
— if you had been told ten times not to dare to 
bite the top off the citron ? Would you not have 
wanted to know what it tasted like ? Would you 
not also have thought of the plan — to bite it off, 
and stick it on again with spittle ? You may 
believe me or not — that is your affair — but I do 
not know myself how it happened. Before the 
citron was rightly in my hands, the top of it was 
between my teeth. 

• • • י « 

The day before the Festival, father came home 
a little earlier from his work, to untie the palm- 
branch. He had put it away very carefully in a 
corner, warning Leibel not to attempt to go near 
it. But it was useless warning him. Leibel had 
his own troubles. The top of the citron haunted 
him. Why had he wanted to bite it off ? What 
good had it done him to taste it when it was bitter 


THE DEAD CITRON 129 

as gall ? It was for nothing he had spoiled the 
citron, and rendered it unfit for use. That the 
citron could not now be used, Leibel knew very 
well. Then what had he done this for ? Why 
had he spoiled this beautiful creation, bitten off 
its head, and taken its life ? Why ? Why ? He 
dreamt of the citron that night. It haunted him, 
and asked him : 44 Why have you done this thing 
to me ? Why did you bite off my head ? I am 
now useless — useless.” Leibel turned over on the 
other side, groaned, and fell asleep again. But 
he was again questioned by the citron. 44 Murderer, 
what had you against me ? What had my head 
done to you ? ” 

The first day of the Feast of Tabernacles 
arrived. After a frosty night, the sun rose and 
covered the earth with a delayed warmth, like 
that of a stepmother. That morning Moshe- 
Yankel got up earlier than usual to learn off by 
heart the Festival prayers, reciting them in the 
beautiful Festival melody. That day also Basse- 
Beila was very busy cooking the fish and the 
other Festival dishes. That day also Zalmen the 
carpenter came to our Tabernacle to make a 
blessing over the citron and palm before any one 
else, so that he might be able to drink tea with 
milk and enjoy the Festival. 

44 Zalmen wants the palm and the citron,” 
said my mother to my father. 


K 


130 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“ Open the cupboard, and take out the box, 
but carefully,” said my father. 

He himself stood on a chair and took down 
from the top shelf the palm, and brought it to 
the Tabernacle to the carpenter. 

“ Here, make the blessing,” he said. “ But be 
careful, in Heaven’s name be careful ! ” 

Our neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man — 
may no evil eye harm him ! He had two hands 
each finger of which might knock down three such 
Leibels as I. His hands were always sticky, and 
his nails red from glue. And when he drew one 
of these nails across a piece of wood, there was a 
mark that might have been made with a sharp 
piece of iron. 

In honour of the Festival, Zalmen had put on 
a clean shirt and a new coat. He had scrubbed 
his hands in the bath, with soap and sand, but 
had not succeeded in making them clean. They 
were still sticky and the nails still red with 
glue. 

Into these hands fell the dainty citron. It was 
not for nothing Moshe-Yankel was excited when 
Zalmen gave the citron a good squeeze and the 
palm a good shake. 

“ Be careful, be careful,” he cried. “ Now 
turn the citron head downwards, and make the 
blessing. Carefully, carefully. For Heaven’s sake, 
be careful ! ” 

Suddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward, 


THE DEAD CITRON 131 

and cried out, 44 Oh ! ” The cry brought his wife, 
Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle. 

44 What is it, Moshe-Yankel ? God be with 
you ! ” 

44 Coarse blackguard ! Man of the earth ! ” he 
shouted at the carpenter, and was ready to kill 
him. 44 How could you be such a coarse black- 
guard ? Such a man of the earth ? Is a citron 
an axe ? Or is it a saw ? Or a bore ? A citron 
is neither an axe nor a saw nor a bore. You have 
cut my throat without a knife. You have spoiled 
my citron. Here is the top of it — here, see 1 
Coarse blackguard ! Man of the earth ! ” 

We were all paralysed on the instant. Zalmen 
was like a dead man. He could not understand 
how this misfortune had happened to him. How 
had the top come off the citron ? Surely he had 
held it very lightly, only just with the tips of his 
fingers ? It was a misfortune — a terrible mis- 
fortune. 

Basse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung 
her hands and moaned. 

44 When a man is unfortunate, he may as well 
bury himself alive and fresh and well, right in the 
earth.” 

And Leibel ? Leibel did not know whether he 
should dance with joy because the Lord had per- 
formed a miracle for him, released him from all 
the trouble he had got himself into, or whether 
he should cry for his father’s agony and his 


132 JEWISH CHILDREN 

v.' 

mother’s tears, or whether he should kiss Zalmen’s 
thick hands with the sticky fingers and the red 
nails, because he was his redeemer, his good angel. 
. . . Leibel looked at his father’s face and his 
mother’s tears, the carpenter’s hands, and at the 
citron that lay on the table, yellow as wax, without 
a head, without a spark of life, a dead thing, a 
corpse. 

44 A dead citron,” said my father, in a broken 
voice. 

44 A dead citron,” repeated my mother, the 
tears gushing from her eyes. 

44 A dead citron,” echoed the carpenter, looking 
at his hands. He seemed to be saying to himself : 
44 There’s a pair of hands for you ! May they 
wither ! ” 

44 A dead citron,” said Leibel, in a joyful voice. 
But he caught himself up, fearing his tones might 
proclaim that he, Leibel, was the murderer, the 
slaughterer of the citron, 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 

When I think of Isshur the beadle, I am reminded 
of Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and 
other such giants of history. 

Isshur was not a nobody. He led the whole 
congregation, the whole town by the nose. He 
had the whole town in his hand. He was a man who 
served everybody and commanded everybody ; a 
man who was under everybody, but feared nobody. 
He had a cross look, terrifying eyebrows, a beard 
of brass, a powerful fist, and a long stick. Isshur 
was a name to conjure with. 

Who made Isshur what he was ? Ask me an 
easier question. There are types of whom it can 
be said they are cast, fixed. They never move out 
of their place. As you see them the first time, so 
are they always. It seems they always were as they 
are, and will ever remain the same. When I was 
a child, I could not tear myself away from Isshur. 
I was always puzzling out the one question — What 
was Isshur like before he was Isshur ? That is to 
say, before he got those terrifying eyebrows, and 
the big hooked nose that was always filled with 
133 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


134 


snuff, and the big brass beard that started by being 
thick and heavy, and ended up in a few, long stragg- 
ling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he was 
a child, ran about barefoot, went to ‘ Cheder ,’ and 
was beaten by his teacher ? And what was Isshur 
like when his mother was carrying him about in 
her arms, when she suckled him, wiped his nose for 
him, and said : “ Isshur, my sweet boy. My 

beautiful boy. May I suffer instead of your little 
bones ” ? 

These were the questions that puzzled me when 
I was a child, and could not tear myself away from 
Isshur. 

“ Go home, wretches. May the devil take your 
father and mother.” And Isshur would not even 
allow any one to think of him. 

Surely, I was only one boy, yet Isshur called 
me wretches. You must know that Isshur hated 
to have any one staring at him. Isshur hated little 
children. He could not bear them. “ Children,” 
he said, “ are naturally bad. They are scamps 
and contradictory creatures. Children are goats 
that leap into strange gardens. Children are dogs 
that snap at one’s coat-tails. Children are pigs that 
crawl on the table. Children should be taught 
manners. They ought to be made tremble, as with 
the ague.” And we did tremble as if we had the 
ague. 

Why were we afraid, you ask. Well, would 
you not be afraid if you were taken by the ear, 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 135 

dragged to the door, and beaten over the neck and 
shoulders ? 

“ Go home, wretches. May the devil take your 
. father and mother.” 

You will tell your mother on him ? Well, 
try it. You want to know what will happen ? 

I will tell you. You will go home and show your 
mother your torn ear. Your mother will pounce 
on your father. “ You see how the tyrant has 
torn the ear of your child — your only son.” Your 
father will take you by the hand to the synagogue, 
and straight over to Isshur the beadle, as if to say 
to him : 44 Here, see what you have done to my only 
son. You have almost torn off his ear.” And 
Isshur will reply to my father’s unspoken words : 
44 Go in health with your wretches.” You hear ? 
Even an only son is also wretches. And what 
can father do ? Push his hat on one side, and go 
home. Mother will ask him : 44 Well ? ” And 

he will reply : 44 1 gave it to him, the wicked one, 
the Haman ! What more could I do to him ? ” 

It is not at all nice that a father should tell 
such a big lie. But what is one to do when one is 
under the yoke of a beadle ? 

One might say that the whole town is under 
Isshur’s yoke. He does what he likes. If he does 
not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of 
winter, you may burst arguing with him. He 
will heed you no more than last year’s snow. If 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


136 


Isshur wants prayers to start early in the morning, 
you will be too late whenever you come. If Isshur 
does not want you to read the portion of the Law 
for eighteen weeks on end, you may stare at him 
from to-day till to-morrow, or cough until you 
burst. He will neither see nor hear you. It is 
the same with your praying-shawl, or your prayer- 
book, or with your citron, or the willow-twigs, 
Isshur will bring them to you when he likes, not 
when you like. He says that householders are 
plentiful as dogs, but there is only one beadle— may 
no evil eye harm him ! The congregation is so big, 
one might go mad. 

And Isshur was proud and haughty. He re- 
duced every one to the level of the earth. The most 
respectable householder often got it hot from him. 
“ It is better for you not to start with me,” he said. 
“ I have no time to talk to you. There are a lot 
of you, and I am only one — may no evil eye harm 
me!” And nobody began with him. They were 
glad that he did not begin with them. 

Naturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur 
what became of the money donated to the synagogue, 
or of the money he got for the candles, and the money 
thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did they 
ask him any other questions relating to the manage- 
ment of the synagogue. He was the master of 
the whole concern. And whom was he to give an 
account to ? The people were glad if he left them 
alone, and that he did not throw the keys into 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 137 

their faces. “ Here, keep this place going your- 
selves. Provide it with wood and water, candles 
and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A 
slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the 
walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The 
stands have to be repaired, and books bought. 
And what about the 4 Chanukah ’ lamp ? And what 
of the palm-branch and the citron ? And where is 
this, and where is that ? ” And though every one 
knew that all the things he mentioned not only 
did not mean an outlay of money, but were, on 
the contrary, a source of income, yet no one 
dared interfere. All these belonged to the beadle. 
They were his means of livelihood. “ The fine 
salary I get from you ! One’s head might grow hard 
on it. It’s only enough for the water for the 
porridge,” said Isshur. And the people were silent. 

The people were silent, though they knew very 
well that 4 Reb ’ Isshur was saving money. They knew 
very well he had plenty of money. It was possible 
he even lent out money on interest, in secret, on 
good securities, of course. He had a little house of 
his own, and a garden, and a cow. And he drank 
a good glassful of brandy every day. In the 
winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife always 
wore good boots without holes. She made herself 
a new cloak not long ago, out of the public money. 
“ May she suffer through it for our blood, Father 
in heaven ! ” 

That’s what the villagers muttered softly 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


138 


through their teeth, so that the beadle might not 
hear them. When he approached, they broke off 
and spoke of something else. They blinked their 
eyes, breathed hard, and took from the beadle a 
pinch of snuff with their two fingers. “ Excuse me.” 

This “ excuse m£ ” was a nasty “ excuse me.” 
It was meant to be flattering, to convey the sense 
of — “ Excuse me, your snuff is surely good.” And, 
64 Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in 
peace.” 

Isshur understood the compliment, and also 
the hint. He knew the people loved him like sore 
eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his 
office from him as surely as they wished to live. 
But he heeded them as little as Haman heeds the 
4 Purim ’ rattles. He had them in his fists, and he 
knew what to do. 

He who wants to find favour with everybody 
will find favour with nobody. And if one has to 
bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet. 

Isshur understood these two wise sayings. He 
sought the favour of the leaders of the community. 
He did everything they told him to, lay under 
their feet, and flew on any errand on which they 
sent him. And he flattered them until it made one 
sick. There is no need to say anything of what 
went on at the elections. Then Isshur never 
rested. Whoever has not seen Isshur at such a 
time has seen nothing. Covered with perspiration, 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 139 

his hat pushed back on his head, Isshur kneaded the 
thick mud with his high boots, and with his big 
stick. He flew from one committee-man to another, 
worked, plotted, planned, told lies, and carried on 
intrigues and intrigues, without an end. 

Isshur was always first-class at carrying on 
intrigues. He could have brought together a wall 
and a wall. He could make mischief in such a way 
that every person in the town should be enraged 
with everybody else, quarrel and abuse his neigh- 
bour, and almost come to blows. And he was 
innocent of everything. You must know that 
Isshur led the town very cleverly. He thought 
within himself : “Argue, quarrel, abuse one another, 
my friends, and you will forget all about the doings 
of Isshur the beadle.” 

That they should forget his doings was an impor- 
tant matter to Isshur, because, of late, the people 
had begun to talk of him, and to demand from 
him an account of the money he had taken for the 
synagogue And who had done this ? The young 
people — the young wretches he had always hated 
and tortured. 

They say that children become men, and men 
become children. Many generations have grown 
up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters 
became greybeards. The little wretches became 
self-supporting young men. The young men 
got married and became householders. The 
householders became old men, and still Isshur was 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


140 


Isshur. But all at once there grew up a generation 
that was young, fresh, curious — a generation which 
was called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, 
wretches. The Lord help and preserve one from 
them. 

“ How does Isshur come to be an overlord ? 
He is only a beadle. He ought to serve us, and not 
we him. How long more will this old Isshur with 
the long legs and big stick rule over us ? The 
account. Where is the account ? We must have 
the account.” 

This was the demand of the new generation that 
was made up entirely of heathens, insolent ones, 
fearless ones, devils and wretches. They shouted 
in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their 
voices. Isshur pretended to be deaf, and not to 
hear anything. Afterwards, he began to drive 
them out of the yard. He extinguished the candles 
in the synagogue, locked the door, and threw out 
the boys. Then he tried to turn against them the 
anger of the householders of the village. He told 
them of all their misdeeds — that they mocked at 
old people, and ridiculed the committee-men. In 
proof of his assertions, he showed the men a piece 
of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was 
written a little poem. 

Who would have thought it ? A foolish poem, 
and yet what excitement it caused in the village — 
what a revolution. Oh ! oh ! It would have been 
better if Isshur had not found it, or having 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 141 

found it, had not shown it to the committee-men. 
It would have been far better for him. It may 
be said that this song was the beginning of Isshur’s 
end. The foolish committee-men, instead of swal- 
lowing down the poem, and saying no more about it, 
injured themselves by discussing it. They carried it 
about from one to the other so long, until the people 
learnt it off by heart. Some one sang it to an old 
melody. And it spread everywhere. Workmen 
sang it at their work; cooks in their kitchens; young 
girls sitting on the doorsteps ; mothers sang their 
babies to sleep with it. The most foolish song has 
a lot of power in it. When the throat is singing 
the head is thinking. And it thinks so long until 
it arrives at a conclusion. Thoughts whirl and 
whirl and fret one so long, until something results. 
And when one’s imagination is enkindled, a story 
is sure to grow out of it. 

The story that grew out of this song was fine 
and brief. You may listen to it. It may come in 
useful to you some day. 

The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, 
devils and wretches burrowed so long, and worked 
so hard to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded 
in arriving at a certain road. Early one morning 
they climbed into the attic of the synagogue. 
There they found a whole treasure — a pile of 
candles, several ‘poods' of wax, a score of new ‘Tallis- 
sim a bundle of prayer-books of different sorts that 


142 JEWISH CHILDREN 

had never been used. It may be that to you these 
things would not have been of great value, but to 
a beadle they were worth a great deal. This 
treasure was taken down from the attic very 
ceremoniously. I will let you imagine the picture 
for yourself. On the one hand, Isshur with the big 
nose, terrifying eyebrows, and the beard of brass 
that started thick and heavy, and finished up with 
a few thin, terrifying hairs. On the other hand, 
the young heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, 
devils and wretches dragging out his treasure. 
But you need not imagine Isshur lost himself. 
He was not of the people that lose themselves for 
the least thing. He stood looking on, pretending 
to be puzzling himself with the question of how 
these things came to be in the attic of the synagogue. 

Early next morning, the following announce- 
ment was written in chalk on the door of the 
synagogue : — 

44 Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale 
price.” 

Next day there was a different inscription. On 
the third day still another one. Isshur had some- 
thing to do. Every morning he rubbed out with a 
wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of 
the door of the synagogue. Every Sabbath morning, 
on their desks the congregants found bundles of 
letters, in which the youngsters accused the 
beadle and his bought-over committee-men of many 
things. 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 143 

Isshur had a hard time of it. He got the 
committee-men to issue a proclamation in big 
letters, on parchment. 

Hear all ! As there have arisen in our midst 
a band of hooligans, scamps, good-for-nothings 
who are making false accusations against the most 
respected householders of the village, therefore 
we, the leaders of the community, warn these false 
accusers openly that we most strongly condemn 
their falsehoods, and if we catch any of them, we 
will punish him with all the severities of the law.” 

Of course, the boys at once tore down this 
proclamation. A second was hung in its place. 
The boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation 
of their own in its stead. And the men found on 
their desks fresh letters of accusation against the 
beadle and the committee-men. In a word, it was 
a period when the people did nothing else but 
write. The committee-men wrote proclamations, 
and the boys, the scamps, wrote letters. This went 
on until the Days of Mourning arrived — the time 
of the elections. And there began a struggle 
between the two factions. On the one side there 
was Isshur and his patrons, the committee-men ; 
and on the other side, the youngsters, the heathens, 
the scamps, and their candidates. Each faction 
tried to attract the most followers by every means 
in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, 
enflamed speeches ; the other, soft words, roast 
ducks, dainties, and liberal promises. And just 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


144 


think who won ? You will never guess. It was 
we young scamps who won. And we selected our 
own committee-men from amongst ourselves — 
young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. 
It is a shame to tell it, but we chose working men — 
ordinary working men. 

I am afraid you are anxious for my story to 
come to an end. You want to know how long it 
is going to last ? Or would you rather I told you 
how our new committee-men made up their accounts 
with the old beadle ? Do you want to hear how 
the poor old beadle was dragged through the whole 
village by the youngsters, with shouting and 
singing ? The boys carried in front of the proces- 
sion the whole treasure of candles, wax, 4 Tallis ־ 
sim ’ and prayer-books which they had found in the 
attic of the synagogue. No, I don’t think you 
will expect me to tell you of these happenings. 

Take revenge of our enemy — bathe in his blood, 
so to speak ? No ! We could not do that. I shall 
tell you the end in a few words. 

Last New Year I was at home, back again in 
the village of my birth. A lot, a lot of water had 
flown by since the time I have just told you of. 
Still, I found the synagogue on the same spot. 
And it had the same Ark of the Law, the same 
curtains, the same reader’ s-desk, and the same hang- 
ing candlesticks. But the people were different ; 
they were greatly changed. It was almost impossible 


ISSHUR THE BEADLE 145 

to recognize them. The old people of my day were 
all gone. No doubt there were a good many more 
stones and inscriptions in the holy place. The 
young folks had grown grey. The committee-men 
were new. The cantor was new. There was a 
new beadle, and new melodies, and new customs. 
Everything was new, and new, and new. 

One day — it was 4 Hoshana Rabba ’—the cantor 
sang with his choir, and the people kept beating 
their willow-twigs against the desks in front of 
them. (It seems this custom has remained un- 
changed.) And I noticed from the distance a 
very old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a 
big nose, and terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that 
started thick and heavy, but finished up with a 
few straggling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted 
to this old man. I went over to him, and put out 
my hand. 

44 Peace be unto you ! ” I said. 44 1 think you 
are 6 Reb ’ Isshur the beadle ? ” 

44 The beadle ? What beadle ? I am not the 
beadle this long time. I am a bare willow-twig 
this long time. Heh ! heh ! ” 

That is what the old man said to me in a tremu- 
lous voice. And he pointed to the bare willow- 
twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around 
his grizzled beard that started thick and heavy, 
but finished off with a few straggling, terrifying 
hairs. 


L 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 


That which I felt on the first day my mother 
took me by the hand to ‘ Clneder ’ must be what a 
little chicken feels, after one has made the sacrificial 
blessing over her and is taking her to be slaughtered. 
The little chicken struggles and flutters her wings. 
She understands nothing, but feels she is not going 
to have a good time, but something different. . . . 
It was not for nothing my mother comforted me, 
and told me a good angel would throw me down 
a 4 groschen ’ from the ceiling. It was not for nothing 
she gave me a whole apple and kissed me on the 
brow. It was not for nothing she asked Boaz to 
deal tenderly with me — just a little more tenderly 
because “ the child has only recovered from the 
measles.” 

So said my mother, pointing to me, as if she 
were placing in Boaz’s hands a rare vessel of 
crystal which, with one touch, would be a vessel 
no more — God forbid ! 

My mother went home happy and satisfied, 
and “ the child that had only recovered from the 
measles,” remained behind, alone. He cried a 
little, but soon wiped his eyes, and was introduced 
146 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 147 

to the holiness of the ‘ Torali ’ and a knowledge of 
the ways of the world. He waited for the good 
angel to throw him the * groschen ’ from the ceiling. 

Oh, that good angel — that good angeJJ It 
would have been better if my mother had never 
mentioned his name, because when Boaz came over, 
took hold of me with his dry, bony hand and thrust 
me into a chair at the table, I was almost faint, 
and I raised my head to the ceiling. I got a good 
portion from Boaz for this. He pulled me by the 
ear and shouted : 

“ Devil, what are you looking at ? ” 

Of course, “ the child that had only recovered 
from the measles ” began to wail. It was then 
he had his first good taste of the teacher’s floggings. 
64 A little boy must not look where it is forbidden. 
A little boy must not bleat like a calf.” 

Boaz’s system of teaching was founded on one 
thing — whippings. Why whippings ? He ex- 
plained the reason by bringing forward the case of 
the horse. Why does a horse go ? Because it is 
afraid. What is it afraid of ? Whippings. And 
it is the same with a child. A child must be afraid. 
He must fear God and his teacher, and his father 
and his mother, a sin and a bad thought. And in 
order that a child should be really afraid, he must 
be laid down, in the true style, and given a score 
or so lashes. There is nothing better in the world 
than the rod. May the whip live long ! 


148 JEWISH CHILDREN 

So says Boaz. He takes the strap slowly in 
his hands, without haste, examines it on all sides 
as one examines a citron. Then he betakes him- 
self to his work in good earnest, cheerfully singing 
a song by way of accompaniment. 

Wonder of wonders ! Boaz never counts the 
strokes, and never makes a mistake. Boaz flogs, 
and is never angry. Boaz is not a bad tempered 
man. He is only angry when a boy will not let 
himself be whipped, tries to tear himself free, or 
kicks out his legs. Then it is different. At such 
times Boaz’s eyes are bloodshot, and he flogs 
without counting and without singing his little 
song. A little boy must lie still while his teacher 
flogs him. A little boy must have manners, even 
when he is being flogged. 

Boaz is also angry if a boy laughs when he is 
being whipped (There are children who laugh 
when they are beaten. People say this is a disease. ) 
To Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has 
never laughed as long as he is alive. And he hates 
to see any one else laughing. One might easily 
have promised the greatest reward to the person 
who could swear he once saw Boaz laughing. 
Boaz is not a man for laughter. His face is not 
made for it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely 
look more terrible than another man crying. 
(There are such faces in the world.) And really, 
what sort of a thing is laughter ? It is only 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 149 

idlers who laugh, empty-headed gools, good-for- 
nothings, devil-may-care sort of people. Those 
who have to work for a living, or carry on their 
shoulders the burden of a knowledge of the Holy 
Law and of the ways of the world, have no time 
to laugh. Boaz never has time. He is either 
teaching or whipping. That is to say, he teaches 
while he whips, and whips while he teaches. It 
would be hard to divide these two — to say where 
teaching ended and whipping began. 

And you must know that Boaz never whipped 
us for nothing. There was always a reason for it. 
It was either for not learning our lessons, for not 
wanting to pray well, for not obeying our fathers 
and mothers, for not looking in, and for not looking 
out, for just looking, for praying too quickly, for 
praying too slowly, for speaking too loudly, for 
speaking too softly, for a torn coat, a lost button, 
a pull or a push, for dirty hands, a soiled book, for 
being greedy, for running, for playing — and so on, 
and so on, without an end. 

One might say we were whipped for every sin 
that a human being can commit. We were whipped 
for the sake of the next world as well as this world. 
We were whipped on the eve of every Sabbath, 
every feast and every fast. We were told that if 
we had not earned the whippings yet, we would 
earn them soon, please God. And Boaz gave us 
all the whippings we ought to have had from our 
friends and relatives. They gave the pleasant 


150 JEWISH CHILDREN 

task into his hands. Then we got whippings of 
which the teacher said : 

“You surely know yourself what they are for.” 
And whippings just for nothing. “ Let me see 
how a little boy lets himself be whipped.” In a 
word, it was whippings, rods, leathers, fears and 
tears. These prevailed at that time, in our foolish 
little world, without a single solution to the problems 
they brought into being, without a single remedy 
for the evils, without a single ray of hope that we 
would ever free ourselves from the fiendish system 
under which we lived. 

And the good angel of whom my mother spoke ? 
Where was he — that good angel ? 

I must confess there were times when I doubted 
the existence of this good angel. Too early a 
spark of doubt entered my heart. Too early I 
began to think that perhaps my mother had fooled 
me. Too early I became acquainted with the 
emotion of hatred. Too early, too early, I began 
to hate my teacher Boaz. 

And how could one help hating him ? How, 

I ask you, could one help hating a teacher who 
does not allow you to lift your head ? That you 
may not do — this you may not say. Don’t stand 
here. Don’t go there. Don’t talk to So-and-so. 
How can one help hating a man who has not in 
him a germ of pity, who rejoices in another’s pains, 
bathes in other’s tears, and washes himself in other’s 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 151 

blood ? Can there be a more shameful word than 
flogging ? And what can be more disgraceful than 
to strip anybody stark naked and put him in a 
corner ? But even this was not enough for Boaz. 
He required you to undress yourself, to pull 
your own little shirt over your own head, and to 
stretch yourself face downwards. The rest Boaz 
managed. 

And not only did Boaz flog the boys himself, 
but his assistants helped him — his lieutenants, as 
he called them, naturally under his direction, lest 
they might not deliver the full number of strokes. 
44 A little less learning and a little more flogging,” 
was his rule. He explained the wisdom of his 
system in this way : Too much learning dulls a 
boy, and a whipping too many does not hurt. 
Because, what a boy learns goes straight to his 
head, and his senses are quickened and his brains 
loaded. With the floggings it is the exact opposite. 
Before the effects of the floggings reach the brain 
the blood is purified, and by this means the brain 
is cleared. Well, do you understand ? ” 

And Boaz never ceased from purifying our 
blood, and clearing our brain. And woe unto us ! 
We did not believe any more in the good angel 
that looked down upon us from above. We 
realized that it was only a fairy-tale, an invented 
story by which we were fooled into going to Boaz’s 
‘ Cheder And we began to sigh and groan because 
of our sufferings under Boaz. And we also began 


152 JEWISH CHILDREN 

to make plans, to talk and argue how to free 
ourselves from our galling slavery. 

In the melancholy moments between daylight 
and darkness, when the fiery red sun is about to 
bid farewell to the cold earth for the night — in these 
melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is 
departing, and on its heels is treading silently 
the still night, with its lonely secrets — in these 
melancholy moments, when the shadows are 
climbing on the walls growing broader and longer 
— in these melancholy moments between the after- 
noon and the evening prayers, when the teacher 
is at the synagogue, and his wife is milking the 
goat or washing the crockery, or making the 4 Borsht ’ 
— then we youngsters came together at ‘ Cheder ,’ 
beside the stove. We sat on the floor, our legs 
curled up under us, like innocent lambs. And there 
in the evening darkness, we talked of our terrible 
Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. The bigger boys, 
who had been at 4 Cheder ’ some time, told us the 
most awful tales of Boaz. They swore by all the 
oaths they could think of that Boaz had flogged 
more than one boy to death, that he had already 
driven three women into their graves, and that he 
had buried his one and only son. We heard such 
wild tales that our hair stood on end. The older 
boys talked, and the younger listened — listened 
with all their senses on the alert. Black eyes 
gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated. 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 158 

And we decided that Boaz had no soul. He was a 
man without a soul. And such a man is compared 
to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous 
act to get rid of. Thousands of plans, foolish, 
childish plans, were formed in our childish brains. 
We hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of death, 
as we called Boaz. Foolish children ! These 
foolish plans buried themselves deep in each little 
heart that cried out to the Lord to perform a 
miracle. We asked that either the books should 
be burnt, or the strap he whipped us with taken 
to the devil, or — or . . . No one wished to speak 
of the last alternative. They were afraid to bring 
it to their lips. And the evil spirit worked in their 
hearts. The young fancies were enkindled, and 
the boys were carried away by golden dreams. 
They dreamed of freedom, of running down hill, 
of wading barefoot in the river, playing horses, 
jumping over the logs. They were good, sweet, 
foolish dreams that were not destined to be realized. 
There was heard a familiar cough, a familiar foot- 
fall. And our hearts were frozen. All our limbs 
were paralysed, deadened. We sat down at the 
table and started our lessons with as much en־ 
thusiasm as if we were starting for the gallows. 
We were reading aloud, but still our lips muttered : 
“ Father in Heaven, will there never come an end 
to this tyrant, this Pharaoh, this Haman, this 
Gog-Magog ? Or will there ever come a time when 
we shall be rid of this hard, hopeless, dark tyranny ? 
No, never, never ! 99 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


154 


That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor 
innocent, foolish children ! 


46 Children, do you want to hear of a good plan 
that will rid us of our Gog-Magog ? ” 

That was what one of the boys asked us on one 
of those melancholy moments already described. 
His name was Velvel Leib Aryas. He was a 
young heathen. When he was speaking his eyes 
gleamed in the darkness like those of a wolf. And 
the whole school of boys crowded around Velvel 
to hear the plan by which we might get rid of our 
Gog-Magog. Velvel began his explanation by 
giving us a lecture — how impossible it was to 
stand Boaz any longer, how the Ashmodai was 
bathing in our blood, how he regarded us as dogs — 
worse than dogs, because when a dog is beaten 
with a stick it may, at any rate, howl. And we 
may not do that either. And so on, and so on. 
After this Velvel said to us : 

“ Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I 
am going to ask you something.” 

44 Ask it,” we all cried in one voice. 

“ What is the law in a case where, for example, 
one of us suddenly becomes ill ? ” 

44 It is not good,” we replied. 

44 No, I don’t mean that. I mean something 
else. I mean, if one of us is ill does he go to 
4 Cheder,’ or does he stay at home ? ” 


BOAZ THE TEACHER 155 

44 Of course he stays at home,” we all answered 
together. 

44 Well, what is the law if two of us get ill ? ” 

44 Two remain at home.” 

44 Well, and if three get ill ? ” Velvel went on 
asking us, and we went on answering him. 

44 Three stay at home.” 

44 What would happen if, for example, we all 
took ill ? ” 

44 We should all stay at home.” 

44 Then let a sickness come upon us all,” he 
cried joyfully. We replied angrily : 

44 The Lord forbid ! Are you mad, or have you 
lost your reason ? ” 

44 1 am not mad, and I have not lost my reason. 
Only you are fools, yes. Do I mean that we are 
to be really ill ? I mean that we are to pretend 
to be ill, so that we shall not have to go to ‘ Cheder .’ 
Do you understand me now ? ” 

When Velvel had explained his plan to us, we 
began to understand it, and to like it. And we 
began to ask ourselves what sort of an illness we 
should suffer from. One suggested toothache, 
another headache, a third stomach-ache, a fourth 
worms. But we decided that it was not going to 
be toothache, nor headache, nor stomach-ache, 
nor worms. What then ? We must all together 
complain of pains in our feet, because the doctor 
could decide Whether we really suffered from any 
of the other illnesses or not. But if we told him 


156 JEWISH CHILDREN 

we had pains in our feet, and were unable to move 
them, he could do nothing. 

“ Remember, children, you are not to get out 
of bed to-morrow morning. And so that we may 
all be certain that not one of us will come to 
‘ Cheder ’ to-morrow, let us promise one another, 
take an oath.” 

So said our comrade Velvel. And we gave 
each other our promise, and took an oath that we 
would not be at 4 Cheder ’ next morning. We went 
home from 4 Cheder ’ that evening lively, joyful, and 
singing. W T e felt like giants who knew how to 
overcome the enemy and win the battle. 


THE SPINNING-TOP 

More than any of the boys at ‘ Gheder more than 
any boy of the town, and more than any person 
in the world, I loved my friend, Benny 4 Polkovoi .’ 
The feeling I had for him was a peculiar combina- 
tion of love, devotion, and fear. I loved him 
because he was handsomer, cleverer and smarter 
than any other boy. He was kind and faithful 
to me. He took my part, fought for me, and 
pulled the ears of those boys who annoyed me. 

And I was afraid of him because he was big 
and quarrelsome. He could beat whom he liked, 
and when he liked. He was the biggest, oldest, 
and wealthiest boy in the ‘ Cheder .’ His father, 
Mayer 4 Polkovoi ,’ though he was only a regimental 
tailor, was nevertheless a rich man, and played 
an important part in public affairs. He had a 
fine house, a seat in the synagogue beside the ark. 
At the Passover, his 4 Matzo ’ was baked first. At 
the feast of Tabernacles his citron was the best. 
On the Sabbath he always had a poor man to 
meals. He gave away large sums of money in 
charity. And he himself went to the house of 
157 


158 JEWISH CHILDREN 

another to lend him money as a favour. He 
engaged the best teachers for his children. In a 
word, Mayer ‘ Polkovoi ’ tried to refine himself — 
to be a man amongst men. He wanted to get his 
name inscribed in the books of the best society, 
but did not succeed. In our town, Mazapevka, 
it was not easy to get into the best society. We 
did not forget readily a man’s antecedents. A 
tailor may try to refine himself for twenty years 
in succession, but he will still remain a tailor to 
us. I do not think there is a soap in the world 
that will wash out this stain. How much do you 
think Mayer ‘ Polkovoi ’ would have given to have 
us blot out the name bestowed upon him, i Pol- 
kovoi ’ ? His misfortune was that his family was 
a thousand times worse than his name. Just 
imagine ! In his passport he was called Mayer 
Mofsovitch Heifer. 

It is a remarkable thing. May Mayer’s great- 
great-grandfather have a bright Paradise ! He 
also must have been a tailor. When it came to 
giving himself a family name, he could not find a 
better one than Heifer. He might have called 
himself Thimble, Lining, Buttonhole, Bigpatch, 
Longfigure. These are not family names either, 
it is true, but they are in some way connected 
with tailoring. But Heifer ? What did he like 
in the name of Heifer ? You may ask why not 
Goat ? Are there not people in the world called 
Goat ? You may say what you like, Heifer and 


159 


THE SPINNING-TOP 


Goat are equally nice. Still, they are not the 
same. A Heifer is not a Goat. 

But we will return to my friend Benny. 

Benny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled 
hair, white puffed-out cheeks, scattered teeth, 
and peculiar red, bulging, fishy eyes. These red, 
fishy eyes were always smiling and roguish. He 
had a turned-up nose. His whole face had an 
expression of impudence. Nevertheless, I liked his 
face, and we became friends the first hour we met. 

We met for the first time at ‘ Cheder at the 
teachers’ table. When my mother took me to 
‘ Cheder S the teacher was sitting at his table with 
the boys, teaching them the book of Genesis. He 
was a man with thick eyebrows and a pointed 
cap. He made no fuss of me. He asked me no 
questions, neither did he take my measurements, 
but said to me — 

“ Get over there, on that bench, between those 
two boys.” 

I got on the bench, between the boys, and was 
already a pupil. There was no talk between my 
mother and the teacher. They had made all 
arrangements beforehand. 

16 Remember to learn as you ought,” said my 
mother from the doorway. She turned to look 
at me again, lovingly, joyfully. I understood her 
look very well. She was pleased that I was 
sitting with nice children, and learning the ‘ Torah .’ 


160 JEWISH CHILDREN 

And she was pained because she had to part 
with me. 

I must confess I felt much happier than my 
mother. I was amongst a crowd of new friends 
— may no evil eye harm them ! They looked at 
me, and I looked at them. But the teacher did 
not let us idle for long. He shook himself, and 
shouted aloud the lesson we had to repeat after 
him at the top of our voices. 

“Now the serpent was more subtil than any 
beast of the field. ” 

Boys who sit so close together, though they 
shake and shout aloud, cannot help getting to 
know one another, or exchanging a few words. 
And so it was. 

Benny ‘ Polkovoi ,’ who sat crushing me, pinched 
my leg, and looked into my eyes. He went on 
shaking himself, and shouting out the lesson with 
the teacher and the other boys. But he threw 
his own words into the middle of the sentence 
we were translating. 

“ And Adam knew (here are buttons for you) 
Eve his wife. (Give me a locust-bean and I 
will give you a pull of my cigarette.) ” 

I felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some 
smooth buttons. I confess I did not want the 
buttons, and I had no locust-beans, neither did 
I smoke cigarettes. But I liked the idea of the 
thing. And I replied in the same tones in which 
the lesson was being recited ; 


THE SPINNING-TOP 161 

“ And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who 

told you I have locust-beans ?) ” 

That is how we conversed the whole time, 
until the teacher suspected that though I shook 
myself to and fro, my mind was far from the 
lesson. He suddenly put me through an ex- 
amination. 

44 Listen, you, whatever your name is, you 
surely know whose son Cain was, and the name of 
his brother ? ” 

This question was as strange to me as if he 
had asked me when there would be a fair in the 
sky, or how to make cream-cheese from snow, so 
that they should not melt. In reality my mind 
was elsewhere, I don’t know where. 

44 Why do you look at me so ? ” asked the 
teacher. 44 Don’t you hear me ? I want you to 
tell me the name of the first man, and the story 
of Cain and his brother Abel.” 

The boys were smiling, smothering their 
laughter. I did not know why. 

44 Fool, say you do not know, because we have 
not learnt it,” whispered Benny in my ear, digging 
me with his elbow. I repeated his words, like a 
parrot. And the 4 Cheder ’ was filled with loud 
laughter. 

44 What are they laughing at ? ” I asked 
myself. I looked at them, and at the teacher. 
All were rolling with laughter. And, at that 
moment, I counted the buttons from one hand 

M 


162 JEWISH CHILDREN 

into the other. There were exactly half a 
dozen. 

“ Well, little boy, show me your hands. What 
are you doing with them ? ” And the teacher 
bent down and looked under the table. 

You are clever boys, and you will understand 
yourselves what I had from the teacher, for the 
buttons, on my first day at 4 Cheder' 

Whippings heal up ; shame is forgotten. Benny 
and I became good friends. We were one soul. 
This is how it came about : — 

Next morning I arrived at ‘ Cheder ’ with my 
Bible in one hand and my dinner in the other. 
The boys were excited, jolly. Why ? The teacher 
was not there. What had happened ? He had 
gone off to a Circumcision with his wife. That 
is to say, not with her, God forbid ! A teacher 
never walks with his wife. The teacher walks 
before, and his wife after him. 

44 Let us make a bet,” cried a boy with a blue 
nose. His name was Hosea Hessel. 

“ How much shall we bet ? ” asked another 
boy, Koppel Bunnas. He had a torn sleeve out 
of which peeped the point of a dirty elbow. 

“ A quarter of the locust beans.” 

“Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans . 
What for ? Let us hear.” 

“ I say he will not stand more than twenty- 
five.” 


163 


THE SPINNING-TOP 


44 And I say thirty-six.” 

“ Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take 
hold of him.” 

This was the order of Hosea Hessel, of the 
blue nose. And several boys took hold of me, 
all together, turned me over on the bench, face 
upwards. Two sat on my legs, two on my arms, 
and one held my head, so that I should not be 
able to wriggle. And another placed his left 
forefinger and thumb at my nose. (It seemed he 
was left-handed.) He curled up his finger and 
thumb, closed his eye, and began to fillip me on 
the nose. And how, do you think ? Each time 
I saw my father in the other world. Murderers, 
slaughterers ! What had they against my nose ? 
What had it done to them ? Whom had it 
bothered ? What had they seen on it — a nose 
like all noses. 

44 Boys, count,” commanded Hosea Hessel. 
44 One, two, three ” 

But suddenly . . . 

Nearly always, since ever the world began, 
when a misfortune happens to a man — when 
robbers surround him in a wood, bind his hands, 
sharpen their knives, tell him to say his prayers, 
and are about to finish him off, there comes a 
woodman with a bell. The robbers run away, 
and the man lifts his hands on high and praises 
the Lord for his deliverance. 

It was just like that with me and my nose. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


164 


I don’t remember whether it was at the fifth or 
sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny 
4 Polkovoi ’ came in. The boys freed me at once, 
and remained standing like blocks of wood. Benny 
took them in hand, one by one. He caught each 
hoy by the ear, twisted it round, and said : 

“ Well, now you will know what it means to 
meddle with a widow’s boy.” 

From that day the boys did not touch either 
me or my nose. They were afraid to begin with 
the widow’s boy whom Benny had taken under 
his wing, into his guardianship, under his pro- 
tection. 

• • • ft * 

“ The widow’s boy ” — -1 had no other name 
at 4 Cheder .’ This was because my mother was a 
widow. She supported herself by her own work. 
She had a little shop in which were, for the most 
part, so far as I can remember, chalk and locust- 
beans — the two things that sell best in Maza- 
pevka. Chalk is wanted for white-washing the 
houses, and locust-beans are a luxury. They are 
sweet, and they are light in weight, and they are 
cheap. Schoolboys spend on them all the money 
they get for breakfast and dinner. And the 
shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. 
I could never understand why my mother was 
always complaining that she could hardly make 
enough to pay the rent and my school-fees. Why 
school-fees ? What about the other things a 


THE SPINNING-TOP 165 

human being needs, food and clothes and boots, 
for example ? She thought of nothing but the 
school -fees. 44 When the Lord punished me,” 
she wailed, 44 and took my husband from me — 
and such a husband ! — and left me all alone, I 
want my son to be a scholar, at any rate.” What 
do you say to that ? Do you think she did not 
come frequently to the 4 Cheder 5 to find out how I 
was getting on ? I say nothing of the prayers 
she took good care I should recite every morning. 
She was always lecturing me to be even half as 
good as my father — peace be unto him ! And 
whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly 
like him — may I have longer years than he ! And 
her eyes grew moist. Her face grew curiously 
careworn, and had a mournful expression. 

I hope he will forgive me, I mean my father, 
from the other world, but I could not understand 
what sort of a man he had been. From what my 
mother told of him, he was always either praying 
or studying. Had he never been drawn, like me, 
out into the open, on summer mornings, when the 
sun was not burning yet, but was just beginning 
to show in the sky, marching rapidly onwards, a 
fiery angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery 
horses, into whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold 
faces it was impossible to look ? I ask you what 
taste have the week-day prayers on such a morning ? 
What sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a 
stuffy room, when the golden sun is burning, and 


166 JEWISH CHILDREN 

the air is hot as an iron frying-pan ? At such a 
time, you are tempted to run down the hill, to 
the river — the beautiful river that is covered with 
a green slime. A peculiar odour, as of a warm 
bath, comes from the distance. You want to 
undress and jump into the warm water. Under 
the trees it is cool and the mud is soft and slippery. 
And the curious insects that live at the bottom of 
the river whirl around and about before your eyes. 
And curious, long-legged flies slip and slide on the 
surface of the water. At such a time one desires 
to swim over to the other side — over to where 
the green flags grow, their yellow and white stalks 
shimmering in the sun. A green, fresh fern looks 
up at you, and you go after it, plash-plash into the 
water, hands down, and feet up, so that people 
might think you were swimming. I ask you 
again, what pleasure is it to sit in a little room 
on a summer’s evening, when the great dome of 
the sky is dropping over the other side of the 
town, lighting up the spire of the church, the 
shingle roofs of the baths, and the big windows 
of the synagogue. And on the other side of the 
town, on the common, the goats are bleating, and 
the lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the 
heavens, the frogs croaking. There is a tearing 
and a shrieking and a tumult as at a regular fair. 
Who thinks of praying at such a time ? But if 
you talk to my mother, she will tell you that her 
husband — peace be unto him ! — did not succumb 


THE SPINNING-TOP 167 

to temptations. He was a different sort of a man. 
What sort of a man he was I do not know — asking 
his pardon. I only know that my mother annoys 
me very much. She reminds me every minute 
that I had a father ; and throws it into my teeth 
that she has to pay my school-fees for me. For 
this she asks only two things of me — that I should 
learn diligently, and say my prayers willingly. 

It could not be said that the widow’s boy did 
not learn well. He was not in any way behind 
his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he 
said his prayers willingly. All children are alike. 
And he was as mischievous as any other boy. He, 
like the rest, was fond of running away and 
playing, though there is not much to be said of 
the play of Jewish children. They tie a paper 
bag to a cat’s tail so that she may run through 
the house like mad, smashing everything in her 
way. They lock the women’s portion of the 
synagogue from the outside on Friday nights, 
so that the women may have to be rescued. They 
nail the teacher’s shoes to the floor, or seal his 
beard to the table with wax when he is asleep. 
But oh, how many thrashings do they get when 
their tricks are found out ! It may be gathered 
that everything must have an originator, a com- 
mander, a head, a leader who shows the way. 

Our leader, our commander was Benny ־ Pol - 
kovoi .’ From him all things originated ; and on 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


168 


our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the 
fat face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to 
escape scot free from the scrapes. He was always 
innocent as a dove. Whatever tricks or mischief 
we did, we always got the idea from Benny. Who 
taught us to smoke cigarettes in secret, letting the 
smoke out through our nostrils ? flenny. Who 
told us to slide on the ice, in winter, with the 
peasant-boys ? Benny. Who taught us to 
gamble with buttons — to play “ odd or even,” and 
lose our breakfasts and dinners ? Benny. He 
was up to every trick, and taught us them all. 
He won our last 4 groschens ’ from us. And when 
it came to anything, Benny had disappeared. 
Playing was to us the finest thing in the world. 
And for playing we got the severest thrashings 
from our teacher. He said he would tear out of 
us by the roots the desire to play. 

“ Play in my house ? You will play with the 
Angel of Death,” said the teacher. And he used 
to empty our pockets of everything, and thrash 
us most liberally. 

But there was one week of the year when we 
were allowed to play. Why do I say allowed ? 
It was a righteous thing to play then. 

And that week was the week of 4 Chanukah .’ 
And we played with spinning-tops. 

It is true that the games of cards — bridge and 
whist, for example — which are played at 4 Chanukah' 


THE SPINNING-TOP 169 

nowadays have more sense in them than the old 
game of spinning-tops. But when the play is 
for money, it makes no difference what it is. I 
once saw two peasant-boys beating one another’s 
heads against the wall. When I asked them why 
they were doing this, if they were out of their 
minds, they told me to go my road. They were 
playing a game, for money, which of them would 
get tired the soonest of having his head banged 
on the wall. 

The game of spinning-tops that have four 
corners, each marked with a letter of the alphabet, 
and are like dice, is very exciting. One can lose 
one’s soul playing it. It is not so much the loss 
of the money as the annoyance of losing. Why 
should the other win ? Why should the top fall 
on the letter G for him, and on the N for you ? 
I suppose you know what the four letters stand 
for ? N means no use. H means half. B means 
bad. And G means good. The top is a sort of 
lottery. Whoever is fortunate wins. Take, for 
example, Benny 4 Polkovoi .’ No matter how often 
he spins the top, it always falls on the letter G. 

The boys said it was curious how Benny won. 
They kept putting down their money. He took 
on their bets. What did he care ? He was a 
rich boy. 

4 4 G again. It’s curious,” they cried, and again 
opened their purses and staked their money. 
Benny whirled the top. It spun round and round, 


170 JEWISH CHILDREN 

and wobbled from side to side, like a drunkard, 
and fell down. 

44 G,” said Benny. 

44 G, G. Again G. It’s extraordinary,” said 
the boys, scratching their heads and again opening 
their purses. 

The game grew more exciting. The players 
grew hot, staked their money, crushed one another, 
and dug one another in the ribs to get nearer the 
table, and called each other peculiar names — 
44 Black Tom-cat ! Creased Cap ! Split Coat ! ” 
and the like. They did not see the teacher standing 
behind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and 
carrying his ‘ Tallis' and ‘ Tephilin ’ under his arm. 
He was going to the synagogue to say his prayers, 
and seeing a crowd of excited boys, he drew near 
to watch the play. This day he does not interfere. 
It is 4 Chanukah .’ We are free for eight days on 
end, and may play as much as we like. But we 
must not fight, nor pull one another by the nose. 
The teacher’s wife took her sickly child in her 
arms, and stood at her husband’s shoulder, watch- 
ing the boys risk their money, and how Benny took 
on all the bets. Benny was excited, burning, 
aflame, ablaze. He twirled the top. It spun 
round and round, wobbled and fell down. 

44 G all over again. It’s a regular panto- 
mime.” 

Benny showed us his smartness and his quick- 
wittedness so long, until our pockets were empty. 


THE SPINNING-TOP 171 

He thrust his hands in his pockets, as if challenging 
us — “ Well, who wants more ? ײ 

We all went home. We carried away with us 
the heartache and the shame of our losses. When 
we got home, we had to tell lies to account for the 
loss of the money we had been given in honour 
of ‘ Chanukah .’ One boy confessed he had spent 
his on locust-beans. Another said the money had 
been stolen out of his pocket the previous night. 
A third came home crying. He said he had bought 
himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he crying ? 
He had lost the knife on his way home. 

I told my mother a fine story — a regular 
“ Arabian Nights 55 tale, and got out of her a 
second ‘ Chanukah' present of ten i groschens' I ran 
off with them to Benny, played for five minutes, 
lost to him, and flew back home, and told my 
mother another tale. In a word, brains were at 
work and heads were busy inventing lies. Lies 
flew about like chaff in the wind. And all our 
‘ Chanukah' money went into Benny’s pockets, and 
was lost to us for ever. 

One of the boys became so absorbed in the 
play that he was not satisfied to lose only his 
4 Chanukah' money, but went on gambling through 
the whole eight days of the festival. 

And that boy was no other than myself, “ the 
widow’s son.” 

You must not ask where the widow’s boy got the 


172 JEWISH CHILDREN 

money to play with. The great gamblers of the 
world who have lost and won fortunes, estates 
and inheritances — they will know and understand. 
Woe is me ! May the hour never be known on 
which the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of 
one ! There is nothing too hard for him. He 
breaks into houses, gets through iron walls, and 
does the most terrible thing imaginable. It’s a 
name to conjure with — the spirit of gambling. 

First of all, I began to make money by selling 
everything I possessed, one thing after the other, 
my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my buttons. 
I had a box that opened and closed, and some 
wheels of an old clock — good brass wheels that 
shone like the sun when they were polished. I sold 
them all at any price, flew off, and lost all my 
money to Benny. I always left him with a heart 
full of wounds and the bitterest annoyance, and 
greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny. 
God forbid ! What had I against him ? How 
was he to blame if he always won at play ? If 
the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. 
If it falls on the G for him, then he wins. And he 
is quite right. No, I am only sorry for myself, 
for having run through so much money — my 
mother’s hard-earned 6 groschens,’ and for having 
made away with all my things. I was left almost 
naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O 
that prayer-book, that prayer-book ! When I think 
of it, my heart aches, and my face burns with shame. 


THE SPINNING-TOP 173 

It was an ornament, not a book. My mother 
bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniver- 
sary of my father’s death. And it was a book of 
books — a good one, a real good one, thick, and full 
of everything. It had every prayer one could 
mention, the “ Song of Songs,” the Ethics of the 
Fathers, and the Psalms, and the 4 Haggadah ,’ and 
all the prayers of the whole year round. Then 
the print and the binding, and the gold lettering. 
It was full of everything, I tell you. Each time 
Pethachiah the pedlar came round with his cut 
moustache that made his careworn face appear as 
if it was smiling — each time he came round and 
opened his pack outside the synagogue door, I 
could not take my eyes off that prayer-book. 

44 What would you say, little boy ? ” asked 
Pethachiah, as if he did not know that I had my 
eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my 
hands seventeen times, each time asking the price 
of it. 

“ Nothing,” I replied. 44 Just so ! ” And I 
left him, so as not to be tempted. 

“ Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing 
Pethachiah the pedlar has.” 

44 What sort of a thing ? ” asked my mother. 

44 A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer- 

book, I would I don’t know myself what I 

would do.” 

44 Haven’t you got a prayer-book ? And where 
is your father’s prayer-book ? ” 


174 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“You can’t compare them. This is an orna- 
ment, and my book is only a book.” 

“ An ornament ? ” repeated my mother. “ Are 
there then more prayers in an ornamental book, 
or do the prayers sound better ? ” 

Well, how can you explain an ornament to your 
mother — a really fine book with red covers, and 
blue edges, and a green back ? 

“ Come,” said my mother to me, one evening, 
taking me by the hand. 44 Come with me to the 
synagogue. To-morrow is the anniversary of your 
father’s death. We will bring candles to be lit 
for him, and at the same time we will see what sort 
of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has.” 

I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of 
the death of my father, I could get from my mother 
anything I asked for, even to the little plate 
from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat 
with joy. 

When we got to the synagogue, we found 
Pethachiah with his pack still unopened. You 
must know Pethachiah was a man who never 
hurried. He knew very well he was the only man 
at the fair. His customers would never leave 
him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his 
goods, it took a year. I trembled, I shook. I 
could hardly stand on my feet. And he did not 
care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all. 

4 4 Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is 
you have,” said my mother. 


175 


THE SPINNING-TOP 


Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was 
not on fire. Slowly, without haste, he opened his 
pack, and spread out his wares — big Bibles, little 
prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm 
books and little, and books for all possible occasions, 
without an end. Then there were books of tales 
from the ‘ Talmud ,’ tales of the 4 Bal-shem-Tov ,’ 
books of sermons, and books of devotion. I imagined 
he would never run short. He was a well, a fountain. 
At last he came to the little books, and handed 
out the one I wanted. 

“Is this all ? ” asked my mother. “ Such a 
little one.” 

“ This little one is dearer than a big one,” 
answered Pethachiah. 

“ And how much do you want for the little 
squirrel ? — God forgive me for calling it by that 
name.” 

“ You call a prayer-book a squirrel ? ” asked 
Pethachiah. He took the book slowly out of her 
hand ; and my heart was torn. 

“ Well, say. How much is it ? ” asked my 
mother. But Pethachiah had plenty of time. 
He answered her in a sing-song : 

“ How much is the little prayer-book ? It 

will cost you — it will cost you I am afraid it 

is not for your purse.” 

My mother cursed her enemies, that they might 
have black, hideous dreams, and asked him to say 
how much. 


176 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did 
not answer him. She turned towards the door, 
took my hand, and said to me : 

“ Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. 
Don’t you know that ‘ Reb ’ Pethachiah is a man 
who charges famine prices ? ” 

I followed my mother to the door. And though 
my heart was heavy, I still hoped the Lord would 
pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But 
Pethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew 
we should turn back of our own accord. And so 
it was. My mother turned round, and asked him 
to talk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He 
looked at the ceiling. And his pale face shone. 
We went off, and returned once again. 

“ A curious Jew, Pethachiah,” said my mother 
to me afterwards. “ May my enemies have the 
plague if I would have bought the prayer-book 
from him. It is at a famine price. As I live, it 
is a sin. The money could have gone for your 
school-fees. But it’s useless. For the sake of 
to-morrow, the anniversary of your father’s death — 
peace be unto him ! — I have bought you the prayer- 
book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must 
do me a favour in return. Promise me that you 
will say your prayers faithfully every day.” 

Whether I really prayed as faithfully as I had 
promised, or not, I will not tell you. But I loved 
the little book as my life. You may understand 
that I slept with it, though, as you know, it is 


THE SPINNING-TOP 177 

forbidden. The whole ‘ Cheder ’ envied me the little 
book. I minded it as if it were the apple of my eye. 
And now, this ‘ Chanukah ’ — woe unto me ! — I 
carried it off with my own hands to Moshe the car- 
penter’s boy, who had long had his eye on it. And 
I had to beg of him, for an hour on end, before he 
bought it. I almost gave it away for nothing — the 
little prayer-book. My heart faints and my face 
burns with shame Sold ! And to what end ? For 
whose sake ? For Benny’s sake, that he might 
win off me another few ‘ kopeks .’ But how is Benny 
to blame if he wins at play ? 

44 That’s what a spinning-top is for,” explained 
Benny, putting into his purse my last few 4 groschens.’ 
44 If things went with you as they are going with 
me, then you would be winning. But I am lucky, 
and I win.” 

And Benny’s cheeks glowed. It is bright and 
warm in his house. A silver 4 Chanukah ’ lamp is 
burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From 
the kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly 
melted goose-fat. 

44 We are having fritters to-night,” Benny told 
me in the doorway. My heart was weak with 
hunger. I flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My 
mother had come in from her shop. Her hands 
were red and swollen with the cold. She was 
frozen through and through, and was warming 
herself at the stove. Seeing me, her face lit up 
with pleasure. 


N 


178 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“ From the synagogue ? ” she asked. 

“ From the synagogue,” was my lying answer. 

44 Have you said the evening prayer ? ” 

44 1 have said the evening prayer,” was my 
second lie to her. 

44 Warm yourself, my son. You will say the 
blessing over the ‘ Chanukah ’ lights. It is the last 
night of 4 Chanukah ’ to-night, thank God ! ” 

If a man had only troubles to bear, without 
a scrap of pleasure, he would never get over them, 
but would surely take his own life. I am referring 
to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked 
day and night, froze, never had enough to eat, 
and never slept enough, for my sake. Why should 
she not have a little pleasure too ? Every person 
puts his own meaning into the word “ pleasure.” 
To my mother there was no greater pleasure in 
the world than hearing me recite the blessings on 
Sabbaths and Festivals. At the Passover I carried 
out the ‘ Seder ’ for her, and at 4 Chanukah' I made 
the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing over 
wine or beer ? Had we for the Passover fritters or 
fresh ‘matzo ’ ? What were the ‘ Chanukah ’ lights 
—a silver, eight-branched lamp with olive oil, or 
candles stuck in pieces of potato ? Believe me, the 
pleasure has nothing to do with wine or fritters, or a 
silver lamp. The main thing is the blessing itself. 
To see my mother’s face when I was praying, how 
it shone and glowed with pleasure was enough. 


179 


THE SPINNING-TOP 

No words are necessary, no detailed description, 
to prove that this was unalloyed happiness to her, 
real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, and 
recited the blessing in a sing-song voice. She 
repeated the blessing after me, word for word, in 
the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes, and 
moved her lips. I knew she was thinking at the 
time : “ It is he — he in every detail. May the child 
have longer years ! ” And I felt I deserved to be 
cut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had 
deceived my mother, and for such a base cause. 
I had betrayed her from head to foot. 

The candles in the potatoes — my 4 Chanukah ’ 
lights — flickered and flickered until they went out. 
And my mother said to me : 

“ Wash your hands. We are having potatoes 
and goose-fat for supper. In honour of 4 Chanukah ,’ 
I bought a little measure of goose-fat — fresh, beauti- 
ful fat.” 

I washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down 
to supper. 

“It is a custom amongst some people to have 
fritters for supper on the last night of 4 Chanukah ,’ ” 
said my mother, sighing. And there arose to my 
mind Benny’s fritters, and Benny’s spinning-top 
that had cost me all I possessed in the world. 
I had a sharp pain at my heart. More than all, 
I regretted the little prayer-book. But, of what 
use Were regrets ? It was all over and done with. 

Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I 


180 JEWISH CHILDREN 

heard my mother’s groans. I heard her bed creak- 
ing, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning. 
Our of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling the 
windows, tearing at the roof, whistling down the 
chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had come to 
our house a long time before. It was now chirping 
from the wall, “ Tchireree ! Tchireree ! ” And my 
mother did not cease from sighing and groaning. 
And each sigh and each groan echoed itself in my 
heart. I only just managed to control myself. 
I was on the point of jumping out of bed, falling at 
my mother’s feet, kissing her hands, and confessing 
to her all my sins. I did not do this. I covered 
myself with all the bedclothes, so that I might not 
hear my mother sighing and groaning and her bed 
creaking. My eyes closed. The wind howled, 
and the cricket chirped, 4 4 Tchireree ! Tchireree ! 
Tchireree ! Tchireree ! ” And there spun around 
before my eyes a man like a top — a man I seemed to 
know. I could have sworn it was the teacher in 
his pointed cap. He was spinning on one foot, 
round, and round, and round. His cap sparkled, 
his eyes glistened, and his earlocks flew about. 
No, it was not the teacher. It was a spinning-top — 
a curious, living top with a pointed cap and ear- 
locks. By degrees the teacher-top, or the top- 
teacher ceased from spinning round. And in its 
place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt whose story 
we had learnt a week ago. Pharaoh, king of Egypt, 
stood naked before me. He had only just come out 


THE SPINNING-TOP 181 

of the river. He had my little prayer-book in his 
hand. I could not make out how that wicked 
king, who had bathed in Jewish blood, came to 
have my prayer-book. And I saw seven cows, 
lean and starved, mere skin and bones, with big 
horns and long ears. They came to me one after 
the other. They opened their mouths and tried 
to swallow me. Suddenly, there appeared my 
friend Benny. He took hold of their long ears, 
and twisted them round. Some one was crying 
softly, sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. 
A man stood near me. He was not a human being. 
He said to me softly : 

“ Tell me, son, on which day do you recite 
the mourner’s prayer for me?” 

I understood that this was my father of whom 
my mother had told me so many good things. 
I wanted to tell him the day on which I must say 
the mourner’s prayer for him, but I had forgotten 
it. I fretted myself. I rubbed my forehead, and 
tried to remind myself of the day, but I could not. 
Did you ever hear the like ? I forgot the day of 
the anniversary of my father’s death. Listen, 
Jewish children, can you not tell me when the 
day is ? Why are you silent ? Help ! Help ! 
Help! 

“ God be with you ! Why are you shouting ? 
Why do you shriek ? What is the matter with 
you ? May the Lord preserve you ! ” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


182 


You will understand it was my mother who was 
speaking to me. She held my head. I could feel 
her trembling and shaking. The lowered lamp gave 
out no light, but an oppressive stench. I saw my 
mother’s shadow dancing on the wall. The points 
of the kerchief she wore on her head were like two 
horns. Her eyes gleamed horribly in the darkness. 

“ When do I say the mourner’s prayer, mother ? 
Tell me, when do I say the mourner’s prayer ? ” 

“ God be with you ! The anniversary of your 
father’s death was not long ago. You have had a 
bad dream. Spit out three times. Tfu ! Tfu ! 
Tfu ! May it be for a good sign ! Amen ! Amen ! 
Amen ! ” 

Children, I grew up, and Benny grew up. He 
became a young man with a yellowish beard 
and a round belly. He wears a gold chain across 
it. It seems he is a rich man. 

We met in the train. I recognized him by his 
fishy, bulging eyes and his scattered teeth. We 
had not met for a long time. We kissed one another 
and talked of the good old times, the dear good days 
of our childhood, and the foolish things we did then. 

“ Do you remember, Benny, that 4 Chanukah ’ 
when you won everything with the spinning top ? 
The G always fell for you.” 

I looked at Benny. He was convulsed with 
laughter. He held his sides. He was rolling over. 
He was actually choking with laughter. 


THE SPINNING-TOP 183 

“ God be with you, Benny ! Why this sudden 
burst of laughter, Benny ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” he cried, “ oh ! go away with your 
spinning-top ! That was a good top. It was a 
real top. It was a pudding made only of suet. It 
was a stew of nothing but raisins.” 

“ What sort of a top was it, Benny ? Tell me 
quicker.” 

“ It was a top that had all around it, on all the 
corners only the one letter, G.” 


ESTHER 

I am not going to tell you a story of ‘ Cheder 
or of the teacher, or of the teacher’s wife. I have 
told you enough about them. Perhaps you will 
allow me, this time, in honour of the feast of 
4 Purim? to tell you a story of the teacher’s 
daughter, Esther. 

If the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a 
creature as the Esther of my story, then it is no 
wonder she found favour in the eyes of King 
Ahasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to 
tell you was loved by everybody, everybody, even 
by me and by my older brother Mottel, although 
he was 4 Bar-mitzvah ׳’ long ago, and they are making 
up a match for him, and he is wearing a watch and 
chain this good while. (If I am not mistaken, he 
had already started to grow a beard at the time I 
speak of. ) And that my brother Mottel loves Esther, 
I am positive. He thinks I do not know that his 
going to 4 Cheder ’ every Sabbath to read with the 
teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday’s day ! The 
teacher snores loudly. The teacher’s wife stands 
on the doorstep talking with the women. We 
boys play around the room, and Mottel and Esther 
184 


185 


ESTHER 


are staring — she at him, and he at her, It some- 
times happens that we boys play at 44 blind-man’s- 
buff.” Do you know what “ blind-man’s-buff ” 
is ? Well, then I will tell you. You take a boy, 
bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place him in 
the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly round 
him crying : 44 Blindman, blindman, catch me ! ” 

Mottel and Esther also play at 44 blind-man’s- 
buff ” with us. They like the game because, 
when they are playing it, they can chase one 
another — she him, and he her. 

And I have many more proofs I could give you 
that But I am not that sort. 

I once caught them holding hands, he hers, 
and she his. And it was not on the Sabbath either, 
but on a weekday. It was towards evening, 
between the afternoon and the evening prayers. 
He was pretending to go to the synagogue. He 
strayed into 4 ChederS 44 Where is the teacher ? ” 
44 The teacher is not here.” And he went and gave 
her his hand, Esther, that is. I saw them. He 
withdrew his hand and gave me a 4 groschen ’ to tell 
no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I 
asked three, and he gave me three. What do you 
think — if I had asked four, or five, or six, would 
he not have given them ? But I am not that sort. 

Another time, too, something happened. But 
enough of this. I will rather tell you the real 
story — the one I promised you. 


186 JEWISH CHILDREN 

As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. 
He does not go to 4 Cheder ’ any more, nor does 
he wish to learn anything at home. For this, my 
father calls him “ Man of clay.” He has no other 
name for him. My mother does not like it. What 
sort of a habit is it to call a young man, almost a 
bridegroom, a man of clay ? My father says he 
is nothing else but a man of clay. They quarrel 
about it. I do not know what other parents do, 
but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and 
night they are quarrelling. 

If I were to tell you how my father and mother 
quarrel, you would split your sides laughing. But 
I am not that sort. 

In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to 
4 Cheder ’ any more. Nevertheless, he does not 
forget to send the teacher a 4 Purim ’ present. 
Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice 
poem in Hebrew, illuminated with a 44 Shield of 
David,” and two paper 4 roubles' With whom does 
he send this 4 Purim ’ present ? With me, of course. 
My brother says to me, 44 Here, hand the teacher 
this 4 Purim ’ present. When you come back, I will 
give you ten 4 gr os cherts' ” Ten ‘gr os chens ’ is money. 
But what then ? I want the money now. My 
brother said I was a heathen. Said 1 : 44 It may be 
I am a heathen. I will not argue about it. But I 
want to see the money,” said I. Who do you 
think won ? 

He gave me the ten 4 groschens ,’ and handed me 


ESTHER 187 

the teacher’s 4 Purim ’ present in a sealed envelope. 
When I was going off, he thrust into my hand a 
second envelope and said to me, in a quick whisper : 
“ And this you will give to Esther.” 46 To Esther ? ” 
44 To Esther.” Any one else in my place would 
have asked twice as much for this. But I am not 
that sort. 

44 Father of the Universe,” thought I, when I 
was going off with the 4 Purim 5 present, 44 what can 
my brother have written to the teacher’s daughter ? 
I must have a peep — only just a peep. I will 
not take a bite out of it. I will only look at it.” 

And I opened Esther’s letter and read a whole 
44 Book of Esther.” I will repeat what was there, 
word for wold. 

44 From Mordecai to Esther, 

44 And there was a man, a young man in 
Shushan — our village. His name was Mordecai and 
he loved a maiden called Esther. And the maiden 
was beautiful, charming. And the maiden found 
favour in his eyes. The maiden told this to no 
one because Mottel had asked her not to. Every 
day Mottel passes her house to catch a glimpse of 
Esther. And when the time comes for Esther to 
get married, Mottel will go with her under the 
wedding canopy.” 

What do you say to my brother — how he trans- 
lated the 44 Book of Esther ” ? I should like to hear 


188 JEWISH CHILDREN 

what the teacher will say to such a translation* 
But how comes the cat over the water ? Hush ! 
There’s a way, as I am a Jew ! I will change the 
letters, give the teacher’s poem to Esther, and 
Esther’s letter to the teacher. Let him rejoice. 
Afterwards, if there’s a fine to do, will I be to 
blame ? Don’t all people make mistakes some״ 
times ? Does it not happen that even the post- 
master of our village himself forgets to give up 
letters ? No such thing will ever happen to me. 
I am not that sort. 

“ Good 4 Yom-tov ,’ teacher,” I cried the moment I 
rushed into * Cheder ,’ in such an excited voice that he 
jumped. “My brother Mottel has sent you a 4 Purim ’ 
present, and he wishes you to live to%ext year.” 

And I gave the teacher Esther’s letter. He 
opened it, read it, thought a while, looked at it 
again, turned it about on all sides, as if in search 
of something. “ Search, search,” I said to myself, 
“ and you will find something.” 

The teacher put on his silver spectacles, read 
the letter, and did not even make a grimace. He 
only sighed — no more. Later he said to me : 
“ Wait. I will write a few lines.” And he took 
the pen and ink and started to write the few lines. 
Meanwhile, I turned around in the 4 Cheder .’ The 
teacher’s wife gave me a little cake. And when no 
one was looking, I put into Esther’s hand the poem 
and the money intended for her father. She 


189 


ESTHER 


reddened, went into a corner, and opened the 
envelope slowly. Her face burnt like fire, and her 
eyes blazed dangerously. “ She doesn’t seem to 
be satisfied with the 4 Purim ’ present,” I thought. I 
took from the teacher the few lines he had written. 

“ Good e Yom-tov ’ to you, teacher,” I cried in 
the same excited voice as when I had come in. 
“ May you live to next year.” And I was gone. 

When I was• on the other side of the door, 
Esther ran after me. Her eyes were red with 
weeping. “ Here,” she said angrily, “ give this 
to your brother ! ” 

On the way home I first opened the teacher’s 
letter. He was more important. This is what 
was written in it. 

“ My dear and faithful pupil, Mordecai N. 

44 I thank you many times for your 4 Purim ’ 
present that you have sent me. Last year and the 
year before, you sent me a real 4 Purim ’ present. 
But this year you sent me a new translation of 
the 44 Book of Esther.” I thank you for it. But I 
must tell you, Mottel, that your rendering does not 
please me at all. Firstly, the city of Shushan 
cannot be called 6 our village.’ Then I should 
like to know where it says that Mordecai was a 
young man ? And why do you call him Mottel ? 
Which Mottel ? And where does it say he loved a 
maiden ? The word referring to Mordecai and 
Esther means ‘ brought up.’ And your saying 


190 JEWISH CHILDREN 

4 he will go with her under the wedding canopy 5 is 
just idiotic nonsense. The phrase you quote refers 
to Ahasuerus, not to Mordecai. Then again, it is 
nowhere mentioned in the “ Book of Esther ” that 
Ahasuerus went with Esther under the wedding 
canopy. Does it need brains to turn a passage 
upside down ? Every passage must have sense in 
it. Last year, and the year before, you sent me 
something different. This year you sent your 
teacher a translation of the 44 Book of Esther,” and 
a distorted translation into the bargain. Well, 
perhaps it should be so. Anyhow, I am sending you 
back your translation, and may the Lord send you 
a good year, according to the wishes of your teacher.” 

Well, that’s what you call a slap in the face. 
It serves my brother right. I should think he will 
never write such a 44 Book of Esther ” again. 

Having got through the teacher’s letter, I 
must see what the teacher’s daughter writes. On 
opening the envelope, the two paper 4 roubles ’ fell 
out. What the devil does this mean ? I read the 
letter — only a few lines. 

“ Mottel, I thank you for the two 4 roubles .’ 
You may take them back. I never expected such 
a 4 Purim ’ present from you. I want no presents 
from you, and certainly no charity.” 

Ha ! ha ! What do you say to that ? She does 
not want charity. A nice story, as I am a Jewish 
child ! Well, what’s to be done next ? Any one 


191 


ESTHER 


else in my place would surely have torn up the two 
letters and put the money in his pocket. But I 
am not that sort. I did a better thing than that. 
You will hear what. I argued with myself after 
this fashion : When all is said and done, I got paid 
by my brother Mottel for the journey. Then what 
do I want him for now ? I went and gave the two 
letters to my father. I wanted to hear what he 
would say to them. He would understand the 
translation better than the teacher, though he is 
a father, and the teacher is a teacher. 

What happened ? After my father had read 
the two letters and the translation, he took hold 
of my brother Mottel and demanded an explanation 
of him. Do not ask me any more. 

You want to know the end — what happened to 
Esther, the teacher’s daughter, and to my brother 
Mottel ? What could have happened ? Esther 
got married to a widower. Oh, how she cried. I 
was at the wedding. Why she cried so much I do 
not know. It seemed that her heart told her she 
would not live long with her husband. And so it 
was. She lived with him only one-half year, and 
died. I do not know what she died of. I do not 
know. No one knows. Her father and mother 
do not know either. It was said she took poison — 
just went and poisoned herself. “ But it’s a lie. 
Enemies have invented that lie,” said her mother, 
the teacher’s wife. I heard her myself. 


192 JEWISH CHILDREN 

And my brother Mottel ? Oh, he married 
before Esther was even betrothed. He went to 
live with his father-in-law. But he soon returned, 
and alone. What had happened ? He wanted to 
divorce his wife. Said my father to him : “You 
are a man of clay.” My mother would not have 
this. They quarrelled. It was lively. But it 
was useless. He divorced his wife and married 
another woman. He now has two children — a boy 
and a girl. The boy it called Herzl, after Dr. 
Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father 
wanted her to be named Gittel, and my mother 
was dying for her to be called Leah, after her mother. 
There arose a quarrel between my father and 
mother. They quarrelled a whole day and a 
whole night. They decided the child should be 
named Leah-Gittel, after their two mothers. After- 
wards my father decided he would not have Leah- 
Gittel. “ What is the sense of it ? Why should 
her mother’s name go first ? ” My brother Mottel 
came in from the synagogue and said he had named 
the child Esther. Said my father to him : “ Man 
of clay, where did you get the name Esther from ? ” 
Mottel replied : “ Have you forgotten it will soon 
be ‘ Purim ’ ? ” Well, what have you to say now ? 
It’s all over. My father never calls Mottel “ man 
of clay ” since then. But both of them — my mother 
and my father — exchanged glances and were silent. 

What the silence and the exchange of glances 
meant I do not know. Perhaps you can tell me ? 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 

Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about 
a little knife — not an invented story, but a true 
one, that happened to myself. 

I never wished for anything in the world so 
much as for a pocket-knife. It should be my own, 
and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able to 
take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I 
liked. Let my friends know. I had just begun 
to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki, and I 
already had a knife, that is, what was almost 
a knife. I made it myself. I tore a goose- 
quill out of a feather brush, cut off one end, and 
flattened out the other. I pretended it was a 
knife and would cut. 

44 What sort of a feather is that ? What the 
devil does it mean ? Why do you carry a feather 
about with you ? ” asked my father — a sickly Jew, 
with a yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of 
coughing. 44 Here are feathers for you — play toys ! 
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh ! ” 

44 What do you care if the child plays?” 
asked my mother of him. She was a short-built 
193 o 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


194 


woman and wore a silk scarf on her head. “ Let 
my enemies eat out their hearts 1 ” 

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the 
commentaries, I very nearly had a real knife, also 
of my own making. I found a bit of steel belonging 
to my mother’s crinoline, and I set it very cleverly 
into a piece of wood. I sharpened the steel 
beautifully on a stone, and naturally cut all my 
fingers to pieces. 

“ See, just see, how he has bled himself, that 
son of yours,” said my father. He took hold of 
my hands in such a way that the very bones 
cracked. “ He’s a fine fellow ! Heh־heh־heh ! ” 

44 Oh, may the thunder strike me ! ” cried my 
mother. She took the little knife from me, and 
threw it in the fire. She took no notice of my 
crying. 44 Now it will come to an end. Woe is me ! ” 
I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little 
knife. It had a thick, round, wooden handle, like 
a barrel, and a curved blade which opened as well 
as closed. You want to know how I came by it ? 
I saved up the money from what I got for my 
breakfasts, and I bought the knife for seven 
4 gr os cherts ’ from Solomon, and I owed him three 
more 4 groschensS 

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home 
from school black and blue, hungry and sleepy, 
and with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had just 
started learning the 4 Gemarra ’ with Mottel, the 
44 Angel of Death.” 44 If an ox gore a cow ” I 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 195 

learnt. And if an ox gores a cow, then I must get 
beaten.) And the first thing I did was to take out 
my pocket-knife from under the black cupboard. 
(It lay there the whole day, because I dared not 
take it to school with me ; and at home no one 
must know that I have a knife.) I stroked it, I 
cut a piece of paper with it, split a straw in halves, 
and then cut up my bread into little cubes which 
I stuck on the tip of the blade, and afterwards put 
into my mouth. 

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, 
and scrubbed it, and polished it. I took the 
sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft, 
spit on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening 
the little knife, sharpening, sharpening. 

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat 
over a book. He coughed and read, read and 
coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making 
the bread. I did not cease from sharpening my 
knife, and sharpening it. 

Suddenly my father woke up, as from a deep 
sleep. 

4 4 Who is making that hissing noise ? Who is 
working ? What are you doing, you young 
scamp ? ” 

He stood beside me, and bent over my 
sharpening- stone. He caught hold of my ear. A 
fit of coughing choked him. 

44 Ah ! Ah ! Ah ! Little knives ! Heh-heh- 
heh ! ” said my father, and he took the knife and 


196 JEWISH CHILDREN 

the sharpening-stone from me. “ Such a scamp ! 
Why the devil can’t he take a book into his hand ? 
Tkeh-heh-heh ! ” 

I began to cry. My father improved the 
situation by a few slaps. My mother ran in from 
the kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began 
to shout : 

“ Shah ! Shah ! What’s the matter here ? 
Why do you beat him ? God be with you ! What 
have you against the child ? Woe is me ! ” 

“ Little knives,” said my father, ending up 
with a cough. “ A tiny child. Such a devil. 
Tkeh-heh-heh ! Why the devil can’t he take a 
book into his hand ? He’s already a youth of 
eight years. ... I will give you pocket-knives 
— you good-for-nothing, you. In the middle of 
everything, pocket-knives. Thek-heh-heh ! ” 

But what had he against my little knife ? How 
had it sinned in his eyes ? Why was he so angry ? 

I remember that my father was nearly always 
ailing — always pale and hollow-cheeked, and 
always angry with the whole world. For the 
least thing he flared up and would tear me to 
pieces. It was fortunate my mother defended 
me. She took me out of his hands. 

And that pocket-knife of mine was thrown 
away somewhere. For eight days on end I looked 
and looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned 
deeply for that curved knife — the good knife. 
How dark and embittered was my soul at school 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 197 

when I remembered that I would come home with 
a swollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands 
of Mottel, the “ Angel of Death,” because an ox 
gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to 
for comfort. I was lonely without the curved 
knife — lonely as an orphan. No one saw the 
tears I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after 
I had come back from 4 Cheder .’ In silence, I cried 
my eyes out. In the morning I was again at 
4 Cheder ,’ and again I repeated : “ If an ox gore a 
cow,” and again I felt the blows of Mottel, the 
44 Angel of Death” ; again my father was angry, 
coughed, and swore at me. I had not a free 
moment. I did not see a smiling face. There 
was not a single little smile for me anywhere, not 
a single one. I had nobody. I was alone — all 
alone in the whole world. 

A year went by, and perhaps a year and a half. 
I was beginning to forget the curved knife. It 
seems I was destined to waste all the years of my 
childhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife 
was created — to my misfortune — a brand new 
knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it was 
a fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones, 
sharp as razors, and a white bone handle, and 
brass ends, and copper rivets. I tell you, it was a 
beauty, a real good pocket-knife. 

How came to me such a fine knife, that was 
never meant for such as I ? That is a whole 


198 JEWISH CHILDREN 

story — a sad, but interesting story. Listen to me 
attentively. 

What value in my eyes had the German Jew 
who lodged with us — the contractor, Herr Hertz 
Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about 
without a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had 
his coat-tails cut off ? I ask you how I could have 
helped laughing into his face, when that Jewish- 
Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish, 
but in a curious Yiddish with a lot of A’s in it. 

64 Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will 
be read this week ? ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” I burst out laughing and 
hid my face in my hands. 

44 Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the 
Law will be read this week ? ” 

44 Ha ! ha ! ha ! Balak,” I burst out with 
a laugh, and ran away. 

But that was only in the beginning, before I 
knew him. Afterwards, when I knew Herr Hertz 
Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for over 
a year) I loved him so well that I did not care if he 
said no prayers, and ate his food without saying 
the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not understand 
how he existed, and why the Lord allowed him 
to remain in the world. Why was he not choked at 
table ? And why did the hair not fall out of his 
uncovered head ? I had heard from my teacher, 
Mottel, the “ Angel of Death,” from his own mouth, 
that this German Jew was only a spirit. That is 


199 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


to say, a Jew was turned into a German ; and later 
on he might turn into a wolf, a cow, a horse, or 
maybe a duck. A duck ? 

4 4 Ha ! ha ! ha ! A fine story,” thought I. 
But I was genuinely sorry for the German. Never- 
theless, I did not understand why my father, who 
was a very orthodox Jew, should pay the German 
Jew so much respect, as also did the other Jews 
who used to come into our house. 

44 Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz ! 
Blessed art thou who comest, Reb Hertz Hertzen- 
hertz ! ” 

I once ventured to ask my father why this 
was so, but he thrust me to one side and said : 

44 Go away. It is not your business. Why 
do you get under our feet ? Who the devil wants 
you ? Why the devil can’t you take a book into 
your hands ? Heh-heh-heh-heh ! ” 

Again a book ? Lord of the world, I also want 
to see ; I also want to hear what people are 
saying. 

I went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner, 
and heard everything the men talked about. Herr 
Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked 
thick black cigars that had a very strong smell. 
Suddenly my father came over to me, and gave 
me a smack. 

44 Are you here again, you idler and good-for- 
nothing. What will become of you, you dunce ? 
What will become of you ? Heh-heh-heh-heh ! ” 


200 JEWISH CHILDREN 

It was no use. My father drove me out. I 
took a book into my hands, but I did not want to 
read it. What was I to do ? I went about the 
house, from one room to the other, until I came to 
the nicest room of all — the room in which slept 
Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and 
bright it was ! The lamps were lit, and the mirror 
shone. On the table was a big, beautiful silver 
inkstand, and beautiful pens, also little ornaments — 
men, and animals, and flowers, and bones and 
stones, and a little knife. Ah, what a beautiful 
knife ! What if I had such a knife ? What fine 
things I would make with it. How happy I should 
be. Well, I must try it. Is it sharp ? Ah, it 
cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. Oh, oh, oh, what 
a knife ! 

One moment I held the knife in my hand. I 
looked about me on all sides, and slipped it into 
my pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was 
*beating so loudly that I could hear it saying, 
“ Tick, tick, tick ! ” I heard some one coming. 
It was he — Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. > Ah, 
what was I to do ? The knife might remain 
in my pocket. I could put it back later on. 
Meanwhile, I must get out of the room, run away, 
away, far. 

I could eat no supper that night. My mother 
felt my head. My father threw angry glances 
at me, and told me to go to bed. Sleep ? Could 
I close my eyes ? I was like dead. What was I 


201 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


to do with the little knife ? How was I going to 
put it back again ? 

44 Come over here, my little ornament,” said 
my father to me next day. 44 Did you see the little 
pocket-knife anywhere ? ” 

Of course I was very much frightened. It 
seemed to me that he knew — that everybody knew. 
I was almost, almost crying out : 44 The pocket- 
knife ? Here it is.” But something came into 
my throat, and would not let me utter a sound 
for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied : 
44 Where ? What pocket-knife ? ” 

44 Where ? What knife ? ” my father mocked 
at me. 44 What knife ? The golden knife. Our 
guest’s knife, you good-for-nothing, you ! You 
dunce, you ! Tkeh-heh-heh ! ” 

44 What do you want of the child ? ” put in my 
mother. 4 4 The child knows nothing of anything, 
and he worries him about the knife, the knife.” 

44 The knife — the knife ! How can he not know 
about it ? ” cried my father angrily. 44 All the 
morning he hears me shouting — The knife ! The 
knife ! The knife ! The house is turned upside 
down for the knife, and he asks 4 Where ? What 
knife ? ’ Go away. Go and wash yourself, you 
good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce ! ,Tkeh- 
heh-heh ! ” 

I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they 
did not search me. But what was I to do next ? 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


202 


The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe 
place. Where was I to hide it ? Ah ! In the 
attic. I took the knife quickly from my pocket, 
and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did 
not know what I was eating. I was choking. 

44 Why are you in such a hurry ? What the 
devil . . . ? ” asked my father. 

44 1 am hurrying off to school,” I answered, and 
grew red as fire. 

44 A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you 
Say to such a saint ? ” he muttered, and glared at 
me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and 
say grace. 

44 Well, why are you not off to ‘ Cheder,’ my 
saint ? ” asked my father. 

44 Why do you hunt him so ? ” asked my mother. 
44 Let the child sit a minute.” 

I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the 
beautiful knife. It lay there in silence. 

44 What are you doing in the attic ? ” called out 
my father. 44 You good-for-nothing ! You street- 
boy ! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh ! ” 

44 1 am looking for something,” I answered. 
I nearly fell down with fright. 

44 Something ? What is the something ? What 
sort of a thing is that something ? ” 

44 A־— a bo — ok. An — an old ‘ Ge — gemar — ra.’ ” 

44 What ? A ‘ Gemarra ’ ? In the attic ? Ah, 
you scamp you ! Come down at once. Come 
down. You’ll get it from me. You street-boy ! 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 203 

You dog-beater ! You rascal ! Tkeh-heh-heh- 
heh ! ” 

I was not so much afraid of my father’s anger 
as that the pocket-knife might be found. Who 
could tell ? Perhaps some one would go up to the 
attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the 
rafters ? The knife must be taken down from 
there, and hidden in a better place. I went about 
in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father 
told me that he knew, and that now, now he was 
going to talk to me of the guest’s knife. I had a 
place for it — a grand place. I would bury it in the 
ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some 
straw on the spot to mark it. The moment I came 
from 4 Chedef I ran out into the yard. I took the 
knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to 
look at it, when my father called out : 

44 Where are you at all ? Why don’t you go 
and say your prayers ? You swine-herd you ! 
You are a water-carrier ! Tkeh-heh-heh ! ” 

But whatever my father said to me, and as 
much as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish 
to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of 
seeing my one and only dear friend — my little 
knife. The pleasure was, alas ! mixed with pain, 
and embittered by fear— by great fear. 

It is the summer time. The sun is setting. The 
air grows somewhat cooler. The grass emits a 
sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick 


204 JEWISH CHILDREN 

clouds fly by, without rain, across the moon. They 
wish to swallow her up. The silvery white moon 
hides herself every minute, and shows herself again. 
It seemed to me that she was flying and flying, 
but was still on the same spot. My father sat down 
on the grass, in a long mantle. He had one hand 
in the bosom of his coat, and with the other he 
smoothed down the grass. He looked up at the 
star-spangled sky, and coughed and coughed. His 
face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting 
on the exact spot where the little knife was hidden. 
He knew nothing of what was in the earth under 
him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance, 
would he say, and what would happen to me ? 

“ Aha ! ” thought I within myself, “ you threw 
away my knife with the curved blade, and now I 
have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on 
it, and you know nothing. Oh, father, father ! ” 

“ Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat ? ” 
asked my father. “ Why do you sit with folded 
arms like a self-satisfied old man ? Can you not 
find something to do ? Have you said the night 
prayer ? May the devil not take you, scamp ! 
May an evil end not come upon you ! Tkeh-heh- 
heh ! ” 

When he says may the devil not take you, and 
may an evil end not come upon you, then he is not 
angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that he is in 
a good humour. And, surely, how could one help 
being in a good humour on such a wonderfully 


205 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


beautiful night, when every one is drawn out of 
doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant 
sky ? Every one is now out of doors — my father, 
my mother, and the younger children who are look- 
ing for little stones and playing with the sand. 
Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the 
yard, without a hat, smoking a cigar, and singing a 
German song. He looked at me, and laughed. 
Probably he was laughing because my father was 
driving me away. But I laughed at them all. 
Soon they would be going to bed, and I would go 
out into the yard (I slept in the open, before 
the door, because of the great heat), and I would 
rejoice in, and play with my knife. 

The house is asleep. It is silent around and 
about. Cautiously I get up; I am on all fours, 
like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The 
night is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly 
I creep over to the spot where the little knife lies 
buried. I take it out carefully, and look at it by 
the light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like 
guinea-gold, like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, 
and I see that the moon is looking straight down 
on my knife. Why is she looking at it so ? I turn 
round. She looks after me. Maybe she knows 
whose knife it is, and where I got it ? Got it ? 
Stole it ! 

For the first time since the knife came into my 
hands has this terrible word entered my thoughts. 
Stolen ? Then I am, in short, a thief, a common 


206 JEWISH CHILDREN 

thief ? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Command- 
ments, are written, in big letters : 4 4 Thou shalt 

NOT STEAL.” 

Thou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. 
What will they do to me in hell for that ? Woe 
is me ! They will cut off my hand — the hand that 
stole. They will whip me with iron rods. They 
will roast and burn me in a hot oven. I will glow 
for ever and ever. The knife must be given back. 
The knife must be put back in its place. One must 
not hold a stolen knife. To-morrow I will put it 
back. 

That was what I decided. And I put the knife 
into my bosom. I imagined it was burning, scorch- 
ing me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the 
earth till to-morrow. The moon still looked down 
on me. What was she looking at ? The moon 
saw. She was a witness. 

I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. 
I lay down again, but could not sleep. I 
tossed about from side to side, but could not fall 
asleep. It was already day when I dozed off. I 
dreamt of a moon, I dreamt of iron rods, and I 
dreamt of little knives. I got up very early, said 
my prayers with pleasure, with delight, ate my 
breakfast while standing on one foot, and marched 
off to 4 Cheder .’ 

44 Why are you in such a hurry for 4 Cheder ’ ? ” 
cried my father to me. 44 What is driving you ? 
You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little 


207 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


later. You will have time enough for mischief. 
You scamp ! You epicurean ! You heathen ! 
Thek-heh-heh-heh ! ” 

44 Why so late ? Just look at this.” The teacher 
stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my 
comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing 
in the corner with his head down. 

44 Do you see, bandit ? You must know that 
from this day his name is not Berrel the red one, 
as he was called. He is now called a fine name. 
His name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, 
children. Berrel the thief ! Berrel the thief ! ” 

The teacher drew out the words, and put a 
little tune into them. The pupils repeated them 
after him, like a chorus. 

44 Berrel the thief — Berrel the thief! ” 

I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my 
body. I did not know what it all meant. 

44 Why are you silent, you heathen, you ? ” 
cried the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack 
in the face. 44 Why are you silent, you heathen ? 
Don’t you hear the others singing ? Join in with 
them, and help them. Berrel the thief — Berrel 
the thief ! ” 

My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, 
I helped the others to shout aloud 44 Berrel the thief ! 
Berrel the thief ! ” 

44 Louder, heathen,” prompted the teacher. 
44 In a stronger voice — stronger.” 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


208 


And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out 
in a variety of voices, “ Berrel the thief ! — Berrel 
the thief ! ” 

44 Sh — sh— sh — a — a — ah ! ” cried the teacher, 
banging the table with his open hand. 44 Hush ! 
Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing 
judgment.” He spoke in a sing-song voice. 

44 Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my 
child. Quicker, a little quicker. Tell me, my boy, 
what your name is.” This also was said in a sing- 
song. 

44 Berrel.” 

44 What else ? ” 

44 Berrel — Berrel the thief.” 

44 That’s right, my dear child. Now you are a 
good boy. May your strength increase, and may 
you grow stronger in every limb ! ” (Still in the 
same sing-song.) 44 Take off your clothes. That’s 
right. But can’t you do it quicker ? I beg of 
you, be quick about it. That’s right, little Berrel, 
my child.” 

Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was 
born. Not a drop of blood showed in his body. 
He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered. 
He was as dead as a corpse. 

The teacher called out one of the older scholars, 
still speaking in the same sing-song voice : 

44 Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind 
the table, over here to me. Quicker. Just so. 
And now tell us the story from beginning to end — 


209 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


how our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, 
pay attention.” 

And Hirsehalle began to tell the story. Berrel 
had got at the little collecting box of 4 Reb ’ Mayer 
the Wonder-worker,” into which his mother threw 
a 4 kopek ,’ sometimes two, every Friday, before 
lighting the Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed 
his eyes on that box, on which there hung a little 
lock. By means of a straw gummed at the end, he 
had managed to extract the 4 kopeks ’ from the box, 
one by one. His mother, Slatte, the hoarse one, 
suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and 
found in it one of the straws tipped with gum. 
She beat her son Berrel. And after the whipping 
she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he 
confessed that for a whole year — a round year, 
he had been extracting the 4 kopeks ,’ one by one, 
and that, every Sunday, he had bought himself 
two little cakes, some locust beans, and — and so 
forth, and so forth. 

“ Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. 
You know how to do it. This is not the first time. 
Let each give his verdict, and say what must be 
done to a boy who steals 4 kopeks ’ from a charity- 
box, by means of a straw.” 

The teacher put his head to one side. He closed 
his eyes, and turned his right ear to Hirsehalle. 
Hirsehalle answered at the top of his voice : 

“ A thief who steals 4 kopeks ’ from a charity-box 
should be flogged until the blood spurts from him.” 

p 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


210 


“ Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who 
steals ‘ kopeks ’ from a charity-box ? ” 

“ A thief,” replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, 
“ a thief who steals * kopeks ’ from a charity-box 
should be stretched out. Two boys should be put 
on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog him 
with pickled rods.” 

“ Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a 
thief who steals 4 kopeks ’ from a charity-box ? ” 

Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pro- 
nounce the letters K and G, wiped his face, and 
gave his verdict in a squeaking voice. 

“ A boy who steals ‘ topets 5 from the charity- 
bots should be punished lite this. Every boy should 
do over to him, and shout into his face, three times, 
thief, thief, thief.” 

The whole school laughed. The master put his 
thumb on his wind-pipe, like a cantor, and called 
out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being called 
up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the Law 
for the week : 

“ Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would 
you say should be done to a thief who steals 
‘ kopeks 9 from a charity-box.” 

I tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey 
me. I shivered as with ague. Something was in 
my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out 
all over my body. There was a whistling in my 
ears. I saw before me, not the teacher, nor the 
naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades, I saw 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 211 

before me only knives — pocket-knives without an 
end, white, open knives that had many blades. 
And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She 
looked at me, and smiled, like a human being. 
My head was going round. The whole room — the 
table and the books, the boys and the moon that 
hung beside the door, and the little knives — all 
were whirling round. I felt as if my two feet were 
chopped off. Another moment, and I might have 
fallen down, but I controlled myself with all my 
strength, and I did not fall. 

In the evening, I came home, and felt that my 
face was burning. My cheeks were on fire, and in 
my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some one 
speaking to me, but what they said I do not know. 
My father was saying something, and seemed to be 
angry. He wanted to beat me. My mother 
intervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking 
hen spreads out her wings to defend her chickens 
from injury. I heard nothing, and did not want 
to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner, 
so that I might make an end of the little knife. 
What was I to do with it ? Confess everything, 
and give it up ? Then I would suffer the same pun- 
ishment as Berrel. Throw it carelessly somewhere ? 
But I may be caught ? Throw it away, and no 
more, so long as I am rid of it ? Where was I to 
throw it in order that it might not be found by 
anybody ? On the roof ? The noise would be 
heard. In the garden ? It might be found. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


212 


Ah, I know ! I have a plan, I’ll throw it into the 
water. A good plan, as I live. I’ll throw it into 
the well that is in our own yard. This plan pleased 
me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer. 

I took up the knife, and ran off straight to the well. 
It seemed to me that I was carrying in my hand not 
a knife but something repulsive — a filthy little 
creature of which I must rid myself at once. But, 
still I was sorry. It was such a fine little knife. 
For a moment, I stood thinking, and it seemed to 
me that I was holding in my hand a living thing. 
My heart ached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost 
me so much heartache. It is a pity for the living. 
I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly 
from my fingers. Plash ! The water bubbled up 
for a moment. Nothing more was heard, and my 
knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well 
and listened. I heard nothing. Thank God, I 
was rid of it. My heart was faint, and full of 
longing. Surely, it was a fine knife — such a 
knife ! 

I went back to bed, and saw that the moon was 
still loc 1 '^g down on me. And it seemed to me 
she had seen everything I had done. From the 
distance a voice seemed to be saying to me : “ But, 
you are a thief all the same. Catch him, beat him. 
He is a thief, a thief.” 

I stole back into the house, and into my own bed. 

I dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. 


213 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 


I flew with my little knife in my hand. And the 
moon looked at me and said : 

“ Catch him, beat him. He is a thief — a 
thief.” 

A long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy 
dream. A fire burnt within me. My head was 
buzzing. Everything I saw was red as blood. 
Burning rods of fire cut into my flesh. I was swim- 
ming in blood. Around me wriggled snakes and 
serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to 
swallow me. Right into my ears some one was 
blowing a trumpet. And, some one was standing 
over me, and shouting, keeping time with the 
trumpet : 4 4 Whip him, whip him, whip him. 
He is a thie — ef.” And I myself shouted : 44 Oh, 
oh, take the moon away from me. Give her up 
the little knife. What have you against poor 
Berrel ? He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief — 
a thief.” 

Beyond that, I remember nothing. 

I opened one eye, then the other. Where was 
I ? On a bed, I think. Ah, is that you, mother, 
mother ? She does not hear me. Mother, mother, 
mo — o — other ! What is this ? I imagine I am 
shouting aloud. Shah ! I listen. She is weeping 
silently. I also see my father, with his yellow, 
sickly face. He is sitting near me, an open book 
in his hand. He reads, and sighs, and coughs 


214 JEWISH CHILDREN 

and groans. It seems that I am dead already. 
Dead ? . . . All at once, I feel that it is growing 
brighter before my eyes. Everything is growing 
lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter. 
There is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear. 
Tschinna ! I sneezed. Akhstchu ! 

“ Good health ! May your days be lengthened ! 
May your years be prolonged ! It is a good sign. 
Blessed art Thou, O Lord ! ” 

“ Sneezed in reality ? Blessed be the Most 
High ! ” 

“ Let us call at once Mintze the butcher’s wife. 
She knows how to avert the evil eye.” 

“ The doctor ought to be called — the doctor.” 

“ The doctor ? What for ? That is nonsense. 
The Most High is the best doctor. Blessed be the 
Lord, and praised be His Name ! ” 

“ Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is 
terribly hot. In the name of God, go away.” 

“ Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover 
him with wax. Well, who is right ? ” 

“ Praised be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy 
Name ! Ah, God ! God ! Blessed be the Lord ! 
and praised be His Holy Name ! ” 

They fluttered about me. They looked at me. 
Each one came and felt my head. They prayed 
over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my 
forehead, and spat out, by way of a charm. They 
poured hot soup down my throat, and filled my 
mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 215 

flew around me. They cared for me as if I were the 
apple of their eye. They fed me with broths and 
tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did not 
leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, 
and told me over and over again the whole story 
of how they had lifted me up from the ground, 
almost dead, and how I had been lying for two weeks 
on end, burning like a fire, croaking like a frog, and 
muttering something about whippings and little 
knives. They already imagined I was dead, when 
suddenly I sneezed seven times. I had practically 
come to life again. 

“ Now we see what a great God we have, blessed 
be He, and praised be His Name ! ” That was how 
my mother ended up, the tears springing to her 
eyes. “ Now we can see that when we call to Him 
He listens to our sinful requests and our guilty 
tears. We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your father and 
I, until the Lord had pity on us. ... We nearly, 
nearly lost our child through our sinfulness. May 
we suffer in your stead ! And through what ? 
Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel 
whom the teacher flogged at ‘ Cheder ,’ almost until 
he bled. When you came home from ‘ Cheder ’ you 
were more dead than alive. May your mother 
suffer instead of you ! The teacher is a tyrant, a 
murderer. The Lord will punish him for it — the 
Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord 
lets us live, when you get well, we will send you to 
another teacher, not to such a tyrant as is the 


216 JEWISH CHILDREN 

4 Angel of Death, ’ — may his name be blotted out 
for ever ! ” 

These words made a terrible impression on me. 

I threw my arms around my mother, and kissed 
her. 

“ Dear, dear mother.” 

And my father came over to me softly. He put 
his cold, white hand on my forehead, and said to 
me kindly, without a trace of anger : 

“ Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you ! 
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh ! ” 

Also the Jewish German, or the German Jew, 
Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his cigar between his 
teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his 
clean-shaven chin. He said to me in German : • 

“ Good ! Good ! Be well — be well 1 ” 

A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father 
said to me : 

“ Well, my son, now go to 4 Cheder ,’ and never 
think of little knives again, or other such nonsense. 
It is time you began to be a bit of a man. If it 
please God, you will be 4 Bar-Mitzvah ’ in three years 
— may you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh- 
heh-heh ! ” 

With such sweet words did my father send me 
off to ‘ Cheder ,’ to my new teacher, ‘ Reb 5 Chayim 
Kotter. It was the first time that I had heard such 
good kind words from my father. And I forgot,' 
in a moment, all his harshness, and all his abuse, 


THE POCKET-KNIFE 217 

and all his blows. It was as if they had never 
existed in the world. If I were not ashamed, I 
would have thrown my arms about his neck, and 
kissed him. But how can one kiss a father ? 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

My mother gave me a whole apple and three 
* groschens ’ to take to 4 Cheder ,’ and the German gave 
me a few ‘kopeks.’ He pinched my cheek, and said 
in his language : 

44 Best boy, good, good ! ” 

I took my 4 Gemarra ’ under my arm, kissed the 
4 Mezuzah ,’ and went off to 4 Cheder ’ like one newly 
born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious thoughts. 
The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm 
rays. The little breeze stole in under one of my 
earlocks. The birds twittered — Tif — tif — tif— tif ! 
I was lifted up. I was borne on the breeze. I 
wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it 
is — how sweet to be alive and to be honest, when one 
is not a thief and not a liar. 

^1 pressed my 4 Gemarra ’ tightly to my breast, and 
still tighter. I ran to 4 Cheder ’ with pleasure, with 
joy. And I swore by my 4 Gemarra 5 that I would 
never, never touch what belonged to another — 
never, never steal, and never, never deny anything 
#gain. I would always be honest, for ever and ever 
honest. 


ON THE FIDDLE 


Children, I will now play for you a little tune on 
the fiddle. I imagine there is nothing better and 
finer in the world than to be able to play on the 
fiddle. What ? Perhaps it is not so ? I don’t 
know how it is with you. But I know that since 
I first reached the age of understanding, my heart 
longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any 
musician whatever — no matter what instrument he 
played. If there was a wedding anywhere in the 
town, I was the first to run forward and welcome 
the musicians. I loved to steal over to the bass, and 
draw my fingers across one of the strings — Boom ! 
And I flew away. Boom ! And I flew away. 
For this same “ boom ” I once got it hot from 
Berel Bass. Berel Bass — a cross Jew with a 
flattened out nose, and a sharp glance — pretended 
not to see me stealing over to the bass. And when 
I stretched out my hand to the thick string, he 
caught hold of me by the ear and dragged me, 
respectfully, to the door : 

“ Here, scamp, kiss the ‘ Mezuzah.' ” 

But this was not of much consequence to me. 


218 


219 


ON THE FIDDLE 


It did not make me go a single step from the 
musicians. I loved them all, from Sheika the 
little fiddler with his beautiful black beard and his 
thin white hands, to Getza the drummer with his 
beautiful hump, and, if you will forgive me for 
mentioning it, the big bald patches behind his 
ears. Not once, but many times did I lie hidden 
under a bench, listening to the musicians playing, 
though I was frequently found and sent home. 
And from there, from under the bench, I could 
see how Sheika’s thin little fingers danced about 
over the strings ; and I listened to the sweet 
sounds which he drew so cleyerly out of the little 
fiddle. 

Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great 
inward excitement for many days on end. And 
Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes 
always. At night I saw him in my dreams ; and 
in the daytime I saw him in reality ; and he never 
left my imagination. When no one was looking 
I used to imagine that I was Sheika, the little 
fiddler. I used to curve my left arm and move my 
fingers, and draw out my right hand, as if I were 
drawing the bow across the strings. At the same 
time I threw my head to one side, closing my 
eyes a little — just as Sheika did, not a hair 
different. 

My ‘ Rebbe,’ Nota-Leib, once caught me doing 
this. It happened in the middle of a lesson. 

I was moving my arms about, throwing my head 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


220 


to one side, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me 
a sound box on the ears. 

44 What a scamp can do ! We are teaching 
him his lessons, and he makes faces and catches 
flies ! ” 

I promised myself that, even if the world 
turned upside down, I must have a little fiddle, let 
it cost me what it would. But what was I to 
make a fiddle out of ? Of cedar wood, of course. 
But it’s easy to talk of cedar wood. How was I 
to come by it when, as everybody knows, the 
cedar tree grows only in Palestine ? But what 
does the Lord do for me ? He goes and puts a 
certain thought in my head. In our house there 
was an old sofa. This sofa was left us, as a legacy, 
by our grandfather 4 Reb ’ Anshel. And my two 
uncles fought over this sofa with my father — peace 
be unto him ! My uncle Benny argued that since 
he was my grandfather’s oldest son, the sofa be- 
longed to him ; and my uncle Sender argued that 
he was the youngest son, and that the sofa belonged 
to him. And my father — peace be unto him ! — 
argued that although he was really no more than 
a son-in-law to my grandfather, and had no 
personal claim on the sofa, still, since his wife, my 
mother, that is, was the only daughter of 4 Reb ’ 
Anshel, the sofa belonged, by right, to her. But 
all this happened long ago. And as the sofa has 
remained in our house, this was a proof that it was 


ON THE FIDDLE 221 

our sofa. And our two aunts interfered, my aunt 
Etka, and my aunt Zlatka. They began to invent 
scandals and to carry tales from one house to 
another. It was sofa and sofa, and nothing else 
but sofa ! The town rocked, all because of the 
sofa. However, to make a long story short, the 
sofa remained our sofa. 

This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa 
covered with a thin veneer. This veneer had come 
unloosened in many places and was split up. It 
had now a number of small mounds. And the upper 
layer of the veneer which had come unloosened was 
of the real cedar wood — the wood of which fiddles 
are made. At least, that is what I was told at 
school. The sofa had one fault, and this fault was, 
in reality, a good quality. For instance, when one 
sat on it one could not get up off it again because 
it stood a little on the slant. One side was higher 
than the other, and in the middle there was a hole. 
And the good thing about our sofa was that no one 
wanted to sit on it, and it was put away in a 
corner, to one side, in compulsory retirement. 

It was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes, to 
make a fiddle out of the cedar wood veneer. A 
bow I had already provided myself with, long ago. 
I had a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner’s 
son. He promised me a few hairs from the tail 
of his father’s horse. And resin to smear the bow 
with I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. 
I got the resin from another friend of mine, Mayer- 


222 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Lippa, Sarah’s son, for a bit of steel from my 
mother’s old crinoline which had been knocking 
about in the attic. Out of this piece of steel, Mayer 
Lippa afterwards made himself a little knife. It 
is true when I saw the knife I wanted him to change 
back again with me. But he would not have it. 
He began to shout : 

“ A clever fellow that ! What do you say to 
him ! I worked hard for three whole nights. I 
sharpened and sharpened and cut all my fingers 
sharpening, and now he comes and wants me to 
change back again with him ! ” 

“ Just look at him ! ” I cried. “ Well then, it 
won’t be ! A great bargain for you — a little bit of 
steel ! Isn’t there enough steel knocking about 
in our attic ? There will be enough for our children, 
and our children’s children even.” 

Anyway, I had everything that was necessary. 
And there only remained one thing for me to do — 
to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For 
this work I selected a very good time, when my 
mother was in the shop, and my father had gone to 
lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself 
in a corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to 
my work in good earnest. My father heard, in 
his sleep, how some one was scraping something. 
At first he thought there were mice in the house, 
and he began to make a noise from his bedroom to 
drive them off — “ Kush ! Kush ! ” I was like 
dead. . . . My father turned over on the other side 


ON THE FIDDLE 223 

and when I heard him snoring again, I went 
back to my work. Suddenly I looked about me. 
My father was standing and staring at me with 
curious eyes. It appeared that he could not, on 
any account, understand what was going on — 
what I was doing. Then, when he saw the spoiled 
and torn sofa, he realized what I had done. He 
pulled me out of the corner by the ear and beat 
me so much that I fainted away and had to be 
revived. I actually had to have cold water thrown 
over me to bring me to life again. 

44 The Lord be with you ! What have you 
done to the child ? ” my mother wailed, the tears 
starting to her eyes. 

<e Your beautiful son ! He will drive me into 
my grave, while I am still living,” said my father, 
who was white as chalk. He put his hand to 
his heart and was attacked by a fit of coughing 
which lasted several minutes. 

44 Why should you eat your heart out like this ? ” 
my mother asked him. 44 As it is you are a sickly 
man. Just look at the face you’ve got. May my 
enemies have as healthy a year ! ” 

My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. 
The older I grew, the stronger became my desire. 
And, as if out of spite, I was destined to hear music 
every day of the week. Right in the middle of 
the road, halfway between my home and the school, 
stood a little house covered with earth. And from 


224 JEWISH CHILDREN 

that house came forth various sweet sounds. But 
most often than all the playing of a fiddle could be 
heard. In that house there lived a musician whose 
name was Naphtali ‘ Bezborodka ’ — a Jew who wore 
a short jacket, curled־up ear locks, and a starched 
collar. He had a fine-sized nose. It looked as if 
it had been stuck on his face. He had thick lips 
and black teeth. His face was pock-pitted, and 
had not on it even the signs of a beard. That is 
why he was called ‘ Bezborodka , 5 the Beardless 
One. He had a wife who was like a machine* 
The people called her 44 Mother Eve.” Of children 
he had about a dozen and a half. They were 
ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And each 
child, from the biggest to the smallest, played on a 
musical instrument. One played the fiddle, another 
the , cello, another the double-bass, another the 
trumpet, another the 4 Ballalaika,’ another the 
drum, and another the cymbals. And amongst 
them there were some who could whistle the 
longest melody with their lips, or between their 
teeth. Others could play tunes on little glasses, 
or little pots, or bits of wood. And some made 
music with their faces. They were demons, evil 
spirits — nothing else. 

I made the acquaintance of this family quite 
by accident. One day, as I was standing outside 
the window of their house, listening to them playing, 
one of the children, Pinna the flautist, a youth of 
about fifteen, in bare feet, caught sight of me 


ON THE FIDDLE 225 

through the window. He came out to me and 
asked me if I liked his playing. 

“ I only wish,” said I, “ that I may play as 
well as you in ten years’ time.” 

44 Can’t you manage it ? ” he asked of me. 
And he told me that for two and a half 4 roubles ’ a 
month, his father would teach me how to play. But 
if I liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me. 

44 Which instrument would you like to learn to 
play ? ” he asked. 44 On the fiddle ? ” 

44 On the fiddle.” 

44 On the fiddle ? ” he repeated. 44 Can you 
pay two and a half 4 roubles ’ a month ? Or are you 
as unfortunate as I am ? ” 

44 So far as that goes, I can manage it,” I said. 
44 But what then ? Neither my father nor my 
mother, nor my teacher must know that I am 
learning to play the fiddle.” 

44 The Lord keep us from telling it ! ” he cried. 
44 Whose business is it to drum the news through 
the town ? Maybe you have on you a cigar end, 
or a cigarette ? No ? You don’t smoke ? Then 
lend me a 4 kopek ’ and I will buy cigarettes for 
myself. But you must tell no one, because my 
father must not know that I smoke. And if my 
mother finds that I have money, she will take it 
from me and buy rolls for supper. Come into the 
house. What are we standing here for ? ” 

With great fear, with a palpitating heart and 

Q 


226 JEWISH CHILDREN 

trembling limbs, I crossed the threshold of the 
house that was to me a little Garden of Eden. 

My friend Pinna introduced me to his father. 

“ Shalom — Nahum Veviks — a rich man’s boy. 
He wants to learn to play the fiddle.” 

Naphtali 4 Bezborodka ’ twirled his earlocks, 
straightened his collar, buttoned up his coat, and 
started a long conversation with me, all about music 
and musical instruments in general and the fiddle in 
particular. He gave me to understand that the 
fiddle was the best and most beautiful of all in- 
struments. There was none older and none more 
wonderful in the world than the fiddle. To prove 
this to me, he went on to tell me that the fiddle was 
always the leading instrument of any orchestra, 
and not the trumpet or the flute. And this was 
simply because the fiddle was the mother of all 
musical instruments. 

And so it came about that Naphtali ‘Bezborodka ’ 
gave me a whole lecture on music. Whilst he was 
speaking he gesticulated with his hands and moved 
his nose, and I stood staring right into his mouth. 
I looked at his black teeth and swallowed, yes, 
positively swallowed, every word that he said. 

“ The fiddle, you must understand,” went on 
Naphtali 4 Bezborodka ’ to me, and evidently satis- 
fied with the lecture he was giving me, “ the fiddle, 
you must understand, is an instrument that is 
older than all other instruments. The first man 
in the world to play on the fiddle was Jubal-Cain, 


ON THE FIDDLE 227 

or Methusaleh, I don’t exactly remember which. 
You will know that better than I, for, to be sure, 
you are learning Bible history at school. The 
second fiddler in the world was King David. 
Another great fiddler — the third greatest in the 
world— was Paganini. He also was a Jew. All 
the best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For 
instance there was 4 Stempenyu? and there was 
‘ Pedotchur.' Of myself I say nothing. People 
tell me that I do not play the fiddle badly. But 
how can I come up to Paganini ? They say that 
Paganini sold his soul to the Ashmodai for a fiddle. 
Paganini hated to play before great people like 
kings and popes, although they covered him with 
gold. He would much rather play at wayside 
inns for poor folks, or in villages. Or else he 
would play in the forest for wild beasts and fowls 
of the air. What a fiddler Paganini was ! . . . 

4 4 Eh, boys, to your places ! To your in- 
struments ! ” 

That was the order w r hich Naphtali 4 Bezborodka ’ 
gave to his regiment of children, all of whom came 
together in one minute. Each one took up an 
instrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his 
baton on the table, threw a sharp glance on every 
separate child and on all at once ; and they began 
to play a concert on every sort of instrument with 
so much force that I was almost knocked off my 
feet. Each child tried to make more noise than 
the other. But above all, I was nearly deafened 


228 JEWISH CHILDREN 

by the noise that one boy made, a little fellow who 
was called Hemalle. He was a dry little boy with 
a wet little nose, and dirty bare little feet. Hemalle 
played a curiously made instrument. It was a 
sort of sack which, when you blew it up, let out a 
mad screech — a peculiar sound like the yell of a 
cat after you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle 
beat time with his little bare foot. And all the 
while he kept looking at me out of his rougish 
little eyes, and winking to me as if he would say : 
“ Well, isn’t it so ? I blow well — don’t I ? ” 
But it was Naphtali himself who worked hardest 
of all. Along with playing the fiddle, he led the 
orchestra, waved his hands about, shifted his feet, 
and moved his nose, and his eyes and his whole 
body. And if some one made a mistake — God 
forbid ! he ground his teeth and shouted in anger : 

“ Forte, devil, forte ! Fortissimo ! Time, 
wretch, time ! One, two, three ! One, two, three ! ” 

Having arranged with Naphtali ‘ Bezborodka ’ 
that he should give me three lessons a week, of an 
hour and a half each day, for two 4 roubles ’ a month, 
I again and yet again begged of him that he would 
keep my visits a secret of secrets ; for if he did not, 
I would be lost for ever. He promised me faith- 
fully that not even a bird would hear of my coming 
and going. 

“ We are the Sort of people,” he said to me, 
proudly, fixing his collar in place, “ we are the 


229 


ON THE FIDDLE 


sort of people who never have any money. But 
you will find more honour and justice in our house 
than in the house of the richest man. Maybe you 
have a few ‘ gr os chens ’ about you ? ” 

I took out a 4 rouble ’ and gave it to him. Naphtali 
took it in the manner of a professor, with his two 
fingers. He called over 44 Mother Eve,’- turned 
away his eyes, and said to her : 

44 Here I Buy something to eat.” 

44 Mother Eve ” took the 4 rouble ״ from him, but 
with both hands and all her fingers, examined it on 
all sides, and asked her husband : 

44 What shall I buy ? ” 

44 What you like,” he answered, pretending not 
to care. 44 Buy a few rolls, two or three salt 
herring, and some dried sausage. And don’t 
forget an onion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a 
glass of brandy, say ” 

When all these things were brought home and 
placed on the table, the family fell upon them 
with as much appetite as if they had just ended a 
long fast. I was actually tempted by an evil 
spirit; and when they asked me to take my 
place at the table I could not refuse. I do not 
remember when I enjoyed a meal as much as I 
enjoyed the one at the musician's house that day. 

After they had eaten everything, Naphtali 
winked to the children that, they should take their 
instruments in their hands. And he treated me, 
all over again to a piece — 44 his own composition.” 


230 JEWISH CHILDREN 

This “ composition ” was played with so much 
excitement and force that my ears were deafened 
and my brain was stupefied. I left the house 
intoxicated by Naphtali 4 Bezborodko's 9 46 com- 
position.” The whole day at school, the teacher 
and the boys and the books were whirling round 
and round in front of my eyes. And my ears were 
ringing with the echoes of Naphtali’ s 44 composi- 
tion.” At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini 
riding on the Ashmodai, and that he banged me 
over the head with his fiddle. I awoke with a 
scream, and with a headache, and I began to pour 
out words as from a sack. What I said I do not 
know. But my older sister, Pessel, told me 
afterwards that I talked in heat, and that there 
was no connection between any two words I 
uttered. I repeated some fantastic names — 
64 Composition,” 44 Paganini,” etc. . . . And there 
was another thing my sister told me. During the 
time I was lying delirious, several messages were 
sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I was. 
There came some barefoot boy who made many 
inquiries about me. He was driven off, and was 
told never to dare to come near the house again. . . . 

44 What was the musician’s boy doing here ? ” 
asked my sister. And she tormented me with 
questions. She wanted me to tell her. But I 
kept repeating the same words.” 

44 1 do not know. As I live, I do not know. 
How am I to know ? ” 


231 


ON THE FIDDLE 


41 What does it look like ? ” asked my mother. 
44 You are already a young man, a grown-up man 
— may no evil eye harm you ! They will be soon 
looking for a bride for you, and you go about with 
fine friends, barefoot young musicians. What 
business have you with musicians ? What was 
Naphtali the Musician’s boy doing here ? ” 

44 What Naphtali ? ” I asked, pretending not 
to understand. 44 What musician ? ” 

44 Just look at him — the saint ! ” put in my 
father. 44 He knows nothing about anything. 
Poor thing ! His soul is innocent before the Lord ! 
When I was"your age I was already long betrothed. 
And he is still playing with strange boys. Dress 
yourself, and go off to school. And if you meet 
Hershel the Tax-collector, and he asks you what 
was the matter with you, you are to tell him that 
you had the ague. Do you hear what I am saying 
to you ? The ague ! ” 

I could not for the life of me understand what 
business Hershel the Tax-collector had with me. 
And for what reason was I to tell him I had been 
suffering from the ague ? ... It was only a few 
weeks later that this riddle was solved for me. 

Hershel the Tax-collector was so called because 
he, and his grandfather before him, had collected 
the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of their 
family. He was a young man with a round little 
belly, and a red little beard, and moist little eyes, 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


232 


and he had a broad white forehead, a sure sign 
that he was a man of brains. And he had the 
reputation in our town of being a fine, young man, 
a modern, and a scholar. He had a sound knowledge 
of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction. That 
is to say, he had a beautiful hand. They say that 
his manuscripts were carried around and shown in 
the whole world. And along with these qualities, 
he had money, and he had one little daughter — an 
only child, a girl with red hair and moist eyes. 
She and her father, Hershel the Tax-collector, were 
as like as two drops of water. Her name was 
Esther, but she was called by the nickname of 
“ Plesteril.” She was nervous and genteel. She 
was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the 
Angel of Death, because we used to torment her. 
We used to tease her and sing little songs about her : 

“ Estheril. 

“ Plesteril ! 

“ Why have you no little sister ? ” 

Well, after all, what is there in these words ? 
Nothing, of course. Nevertheless, whenever 
“ Plesteril ” heard them, she used to cover up her 
ears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the 
farthest of far corners. And, for several days, 
she was afraid to go out in the street. 

But that was once on a time, when she was 
still a child. Now she is a young woman, and is 
counted amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was 
tied up in a red plait, and she was dressed like a 


ON THE FIDDLE 233 

bride, in the latest fashions. My mother had a 
high opinion of her. She could never praise her 
enough, and called her 41 a quiet dove.” Some- 
times, on the Sabbath, Esther came into our house, 
to see my sister Pessel. And when she saw me, she 
grew redder than ever, and dropped her eyes. At 
the same time, my sister Pessel would call me over 
to ask me something, and also to look into my eyes 
as she looked into Esther’s. 

And it came to pass that, on a certain day, 
there came into my school my father and Hershel 
the Tax-collector. And after them came Shalom- 
Shachno the Matchmaker — a Jew who had six 
fingers, and a curly black beard, and who was 
terribly poor. Seeing such visitors, our teacher, 
4 Reb ’ Zorach, pulled on his long coat, and put his 
hat on his head. And because of his great excite- 
ment, one of his earlocks got twisted up behind 
his ear. His hat got creased ; and more than half 
of his little round cap was left sticking out at the 
back of his head, from under his hat ; and one of 
his cheeks began to blaze. One could see that 
something extraordinary was going to happen. 

Of late, 4 Reb ’ Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker 
had started coming into the school a little too often. 
He always called the teacher outside, where they 
stood talking together for some minutes, whispering 
and getting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated 
with his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. He 
always finished up with a sigh, and said : 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


234 


“ Well, it’s the same story again. If it is 
destined it will probably take place. How can 
we know anything — how ? ” 

When the visitors came in, our teacher, 4 Reb ’ 
Zorach, did not know what to do, or where he was 
to seat them. He took hold of the kitchen stool 
on which his wife salted the meat, and first of all 
spun round and round with it several times, and 
went up and down the whole length of the room. 
After this, he barely managed to place the stool 
on the floor when he sat down on it himself. But 
he at once jumped up again, greatly confused ; and 
he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat, 
just as if he had lost a purse of money. 

“ Here is a stool. Sit down,” he said to his 
visitors. 

“ It’s^all right ! Sit down, sit down,” said my 
father to him. “ We have come in to you, ‘Reb’ 
Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants 
to examine my son — to see what he knows of the 
Bible.” 

And my father pointed to Hershel the Tax- 
collector. 

“ Oh, by all means ! Why not ? ” answered 
the teacher , 4 Reb ’ Zorach. He took up a little Bible, 
and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The 
expression on his face was as if he were saying : 
44 Here it is for you, and do what you like.” 

Hershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his 
hand like a man who knows thoroughly what he is 


235 


ON 'THE FIDDLE 


doing. He twisted his little head to one side, 
closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and 
gave me to read the first chapter of the 44 Song of 
Songs.” 

44 Is it the 4 Song of Songs ’ ? ” asked my teacher, 
with a faint smile, as if he would say : 44 Could you 
find nothing more difficult ? ” 

44 The 4 Song of Songs,’ ” replied Hershel the 
Tax-collector. 44 The 4 Song of Songs ’ is not as 
easy as you imagine. One must undehstand the 
4 Song of Songs.’ ” (Hirshel could not pronounce 
the letter R but said H.) 

44 Certainly,” put in Shalom-Shachno, with a 
little laugh. 

The teacher gave me a wink. I went over to 
the table, shook myself to and fro for a minute, 
and began to chant the 44 Song of Songs ” to a 
beautiful melody, first introducing this commentary 
on it : — 

44 The 4 Song of Songs ’ — a song above all songs ! 
All other songs have been sung by prophets, 
but this 4 Song ’ has been sung by a prophet who 
was the son of a prophet. All other songs have 
been sung by men of wisdom, but this 4 Song ’ has 
been sung by a man of wisdom who was the son 
of a man of wisdom. All other songs have been 
sung by kings, but this 4 Song ’ has been sung by 
a king who was the son of a king.” 

Whilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my 
audience. And on each face I could see a different 


236 JEWISH CHILDREN 

expression. On my father’s face I could see pride 
and pleasure. On my teacher’s face were fear and 
anxiety, lest, God forbid ! I should make a mistake, 
or commit errors in reading. His lips, in silence, 
repeated every word after me. Hershel the Tax- 
collector sat with his head a little to one side, the 
ends of his yellow beard in his mouth, one little 
eye closed, the other staring up at the ceiling. 
He was listening with the air of a great, great judge. 
4 Reb ’ Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took 
his eyes off Hershel for a single minute. He sat 
with half his body leaning forward, shaking himself 
to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain 
himself from interrupting me many times by an 
exclamation, a little laugh and a cough, all in 
one breath, as he waved his double- jointed finger 
in the air. 

“ When people say that he knows — then he 
knows ! ” 

A few days after this, plates were broken, and 
in a fortunate hour, I was betrothed to Hershel the 
Tax-collector’s only daughter, Plesteril. 

It sometimes happens that a man grows in one 
day more than anybody else grows in ten years. 
When I was betrothed, I, all at once, began to feel 
that I was a “ grown-up.” Surely I was the same 
as before, and yet I was not the same. From my 
smallest comrade to my teacher 4 Reb ’ Zorach, 
everybody now began to look upon me with more 


ON THE FIDDLE ' 237 

respect. After all, I was a bridegroom- elect, and 
had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting 
at me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything. 
How could any one take hold of a bridegroom-elect 
who had a gold watch, and smack his face for him ? 
It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and 
a shame for one’s own self. It is true that it once 
happened that a bridegroom- elect named Eli was 
flogged at our school, because he had been caught 
sliding on the ice with the Gentile boys of the town. 
But for that again, the whole town made a fine 
business of the flogging afterwards. When the 
scandal reached the ears of Eli’s betrothed, she 
cried so much until the marriage contract was sent 
back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that is. And 
through grief and shame, he would have thrown 
himself into the river, but that the water was 
frozen. . . . 

Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. 
But it was not because I got a flogging, and not 
because I went sliding on the ice. It was because 
of a fiddle. 

And here is the story for you : — 

At our wineshop we had a frequent visitor, 
Tchitchick, the bandmaster, whom we used to call 
44 Mr. Sergeant.” He was a tall, powerful man 
with a big round beard and terrifying eyebrows. 
And he talked a curiously mixed-up jargon 
composed of several languages. When he talked, 
he moved his eyebrows up and down. When he 


238 JEWISH CHILDREN 

lowered his eyebrows, his face w T as black as night. 
When he raised them up, his face was bright as 
day. And this was because, under these same 
thick eyebrows he had a pair of kindly, smiling 
light blue eyes. He wore a uniform with gilt 
buttons, and that is why he was called at our place 
“ Mr. Sergeant.” He was a very frequent visitor 
at our wine-shop. Not because he was a drunkard. 
God forbid ! But for the simple reason that my 
father was very clever at making from raisins “ the 
best and finest Hungarian wine.” Tchitchick 
used to love this wine. He never ceased from 
praising it. He used to put his big, terrifying hand 
on my father’s shoulder, and say to him : 

“ Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian 
wine. There isn’t such wine in Buda Pesth, by 
God ! ” 

With me Tchitchick was always on the most 
intimate terms. He praised me for learning such 
a lot at school. He often examined me to see if 
I knew who Adam was. And who was Isaac ? 
And who was Joseph ? 

“ Yousef ? ” I asked him, in Yiddish. “Do 
you mean Yousef the Saint ? ” 

“ Joseph,” he repeated. 

“ Yousef,” I corrected him, once again. 

“ With us it’s Joseph. With you it’s Youdsef,” 
he said to me, and pinched my cheek. “ Joseph, 
Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf — what dojes it matter ? 
It is all the same.” 


239 


ON THE FIDDLE 


“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

I buried my face in my hands, and laughed 
heartily. 

But from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, 
Tchitchick gave up playing with me as if I were a 
clown ; and he began to talk to me as if I were his 
equal. He told me stories of the regiment and of 
musicians. 44 Mr. Sergeant ” had a tremendous lot 
of talk in him. But no one else excepting myself 
had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he 
began to talk to me of playing. And I asked him : 

44 On which instrument does 4 Mr. Sergeant 5 
play ? ” 

44 On all instruments,” he answered, and raised 
his eyebrows at me. 

44 On the fiddle also ? ” I asked him. And all 
at once he took on, in my imagination, the face of 
an angel. 

44 Come over to me some day,” he said, 44 and I 
will play for you.” 

44 When can I come to you, 6 Mr. Sergeant , 5 if 
not on the Sabbath day ? ” I asked. “ But I can 
only come on condition that no one knows any- 
thing about it. Can you promise me that ? ” 

44 As I serve God ! ” he exclaimed, and lifted his 
eyebrows at me. 

Tchitchick lived far out of the town, in a little 
white house that had tiny windows and painted 
shutters. Leading up to it there was a big green 


240 JEWISH CHILDREN 

garden from out of which peeped, proudly, a number 
of tall yellow sunflowers, as if they were something 
important. They bent their heads a little to one 
side, and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed to 
me, they were calling out to me : “ Come over here 
to us, boy ! There is grass here ! There is freedom 
here ! There is light here. It is fresh here ! It 
is warm here ! It is pleasant here ! ” . . . And 
after the stench and heat and dust of the town, 
and after the overcrowding, and the noise and the 
tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get 
here. Because there is grass here ; it is fresh here ; 
it is bright here; it is warm here ; it is pleasant here. 
One longs to run, leap, shout and sing. Or else 
one suddenly wants to throw oneself on the bare 
earth, to bury one’s face in the green, sweet-smelling 
grass. But, alas ! this is not for you, Jewish 
children ! Yellow sunflowers, green leaves, fresh 
air, pure earth, or a clear sky. Do not be offended, 
Jewish children, but all these have not grown up 
out of your rubbish ! . . . 

I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with 
red, fiery eyes. He fell upon me with so much 
fierceness that the soul almost dropped out of my 
body. It was fortunate that he was tied up with 
a rope. On hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew 
out, without his jacket, and began ordering the dog 
to be silent. And he was silent. Afterwards, 
Tchitchick took hold of my hand, led me 
straight to the black dog, and told me not to be 


ON THE FIDDLE 241 

afraid. He would not harm me. 44 Just try and 
pat him on the back,” said Tchitchick to me. 
And without waiting, he took hold of my hand and 
drew it all over the dog’s skin, at the same time 
calling him many curious names, and speaking 
kind words to him. The black villain lowered his 
head, wagged his tail, and licked himself with his 
tongue. He threw at me a glance of contempt, 
as if he would say : 44 It is lucky for you that my 
master is standing beside you, otherwise you would 
have gone from here without a hand.” 

I got over my terror of the dog. I entered the 
house with 44 Mr. Sergeant,” and I was struck dumb 
with astonishment. All the walls were covered with 
guns from top to bottom. And on the floor lay a 
skin with the head of a lion or a leopard. It had 
terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was only half 
an evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns — the 
guns ! . . . I did not even care about the fresh 
plums and the apples which the master of the house 
offered me out of his own garden. My eyes did 
not cease leaping from one wall to the other. . . . 
But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle 
out of a red drawer — a beautiful, round little fiddle, 
with a curious little belly, let his big spreading 
beard droop over it, and held it with his big strong 
hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few 
times, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the 
blinking of an eye, the black dog and the terrible 
lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before me 

R 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


242 


Tchitchick’s spreading beard and his black, lowered 
eyebrows. I only saw a round little fiddle with a 
curious little belly, and fingers which danced over 
the strings so rapidly that no human brain could 
answer the question which arose to my mind ; 
“ Where does one get so many fingers ? ” 

Presently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard; 
vanished, along with his thick eyebrows and his 
wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all before 
me. I only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping, 
a sobbing, a talking, and a growling. They were 
extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I heard, the 
like of which I had never heard before, in all my 
life. Sounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil 
were pouring themselves right into my heart, 
without ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere 
far from the little house, into another world, into 
a Garden of Eden which was nothing else but 
beautiful sounds — which was one mass of singing, 
from beginning to end. . . . 

“ Do you want some tea ? ” asked Tchitchick 
of me, putting down the little fiddle, and slapping 
me on the shoulder. 

I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh 
heaven on to the earth. 

From that day I visited Tchitchick regularly 
every Sabbath afternoon, to hear him playing the 
fiddle. I went straight to the house. I was afraid 
of no one; and I even became such good friends with 
the black dog that, when he saw me, he wagged his 


ON THE FIDDLE 243 

tail, and wanted to fall upon me to lick my hands. 
I would not let him do this. 44 Let us rather be 
good friends from the distance.” 

At home, not even a bird knew where I spent the 
Sabbath afternoons. I was a bridegroom-elect, 
after all. And no one would have known of my 
visits to Tchitchick to this day, if a new misfortune 
had not befallen me — a great misfortune, of which 
I will now tell you. 

Surely it is no one’s affair if a Jewish young 
man goes for a walk on the Sabbath afternoon 
a little beyond the town ? Have people really 
got nothing better to do than to think of others 
and look after them to see where they are going ? 
But of what use are such questions as these ? It 
lies in our nature, in the Jewish nature, I mean, to 
look well after every one else, to criticize others and 
advise them. For example, a Jew will go over to 
his neighbour, at prayers, and straighten out the 
44 Frontispiece ” of his phylacteries. Or he will 
stop his neighbour, who is running with the greatest 
haste and excitement, to tell him that the leg of 
his trouser is turned up. Or he will point his 
finger at his neighbour, so that the other shall not 
know what is amiss with him, whether it is his nose, 
or his beard, or what the deuce is wrong with him. 
Or a Jew will take a thing out of his neighbour’s 
hand, when the other is struggling to open it, and 
will say to him : 44 You don’t know how. Let me.” 


244 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Or should he see his neighbour building a house, 
he will come over to look for a fault in it. He says 
he believes the ceiling is too high, the rooms are 
too small, or the windows are awkwardly large. 
And there seems nothing else left the builder to 
do but scatter the house to pieces, and start it all 
over again. ... We Jews have been distinguished 
by this habit of interfering from time immemorial — 
from the very first day on which the world was 
created. And you and I between us will never 
alter the world full of Jews. It is not our duty to 
even attempt it. . . . 

After this long introduction, it will be easy for 
you to understand how Ephraim Log-of־wood — a 
Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did 
not care a button for any of us — should poke his 
nose into my affairs. He sniffed and smelled my 
tracks, and found out where I went on Sabbath 
afternoons, and got me into trouble. He swore 
that he himself saw me eating forbidden food at the 
house of “ Mr. Sergeant,” and that I was smoking 
a cigarette on the Sabbath. “ May I see myself 
enjoying all that is good ! ” he cried. “If it is 
not as I say, may I never get to the place where 
I am going,” he said. “ And if I am uttering the 
least word of falsehood, may my mouth be twisted 
to one side, and may my two eyes drop out of my 
head,” he added. 

“ Amen ! May it be so,” I cried. 

And I caught from my father anbther smack 


ON THE FIDDLE 245 

in the face. I must not be insolent, he told 
me. . . . 

But I imagine I am rushing along too quickly 
with my story. I am giving you the soup before 
the fish. I was forgetting entirely to tell you who 
Ephraim Log-of-wood was, and what he was, and 
how the incident happened. 

At the end of the town, on the other side of the 
bridge, there lived a Jew named Ephraim Log-of- 
wood. Why was he called Log־of־wood ? Because 
he had once dealt in timber. And to-day he is not 
dealing in timber because something happened to 
him. He said it was a libel, a false accusation. 
People found at his place a strange log of wood with 
a strange name branded on it. And he had a fine 
lot of trouble after that. He had a case, and he 
had appeals, and he had to send petitions. He just 
managed to escape from being put into prison. 
From that time, he threw away all trading, and 
betook himself to looking after public matters. 
He pushed himself into all institutions, the tax■־ 
collecting, and the work done at the House of 
Learning. Generally speaking, he was not so well 
off. He was often put to shame publicly. But 
as time went on, he insinuated himself into every- 
body’s bones. He gave people to understand that 
“ He knew where a door was opening.” And in 
the course of time, Ephraim became a useful person, 
a person it was hard to do without. That is how a 
worm manages to crawl into an apple. He makes 


246 JEWISH CHILDREN 

himself comfortable, makes a soft bed for himself, 
makes himself at home, and in time becomes the 
real master of the house. 

In person, Ephraim was a tiny little man. He 
had short little legs, and small little hands, and red 
little cheeks, and a quick walk which was a sort of 
a little dance. And he tossed his little head about. 
His speech was rapid, and his voice squeaky. And 
he laughed with a curious little laugh which sounded 
like the rattling of dried peas. I could not bear 
to look at him, I don’t know why. Every Sabbath 
afternoon, when I was going to Tchitchick’s, I used 
to meet Ephraim on the bridge, walking along, in a 
black, patched cloak, the sleeves of which hung 
loosely over his shoulders. His hands were folded 
in front of him, and he was singing in his thin little 
voice. And the ends of his long cloak kept dangling 
at his heels. 

64 A good Sabbath,” I said to him. 

44 A good Sabbath,” he replied. 44 And where is 
a boy going ? ” 

44 Just for a walk,” I said. 

44 For a walk ? All alone ? ” he asked. And he 
looked straight into my eyes with such a little smile 
that it was hard to guess what he meant by it — 
whether he thought that it was very brave of me 
to be walking all alone or not. Was it, in his opinion 
a wise thing to do, or a foolish ? 

On one occasion, when I was going to Tchitchick’s 


ON THE FIDDLE 247 

house, I noticed that Ephraim Log־of־wood was 
looking after me very curiously. I stopped on the 
bridge and gazed into the water. Ephraim also 
stopped on the bridge, and he also gazed into the 
water. I started to go back. He followed me. I 
turned round again, to go forward, and he also 
turned round in the same direction. A few minutes 
later, he was lost to me. When I was sitting 
at Tchitchick’s table, drinking tea, we heard the 
black dog barking loudly at some one, and tearing 
at his rope. We looked out of the window, and I 
imagined I saw a low-sized, black figure with short 
little legs, running, running. Then it disappeared 
from view. From his manner of running, I could 
have sworn the little creature was Ephraim Log-of- 
wood. 

And thus it came to pass 

I came home late that Sabbath evening. It was 
already after the 4 Havdalah .’ My face was 
burning. And I found Ephraim Log-of־wood 
sitting at the table. He was talking very rapidly, 
and was laughing with his curious little laugh. 
When he saw me, he was silent. He started drum- 
ming on the table with his short little fingers. 
Opposite him sat my father. His face was death- 
like. He was pulling at his beard, tearing out the 
hairs one by one. This was a sure sign that he 
was in a temper. 

44 Where have you come from ? ” my father 
asked of me, and looked at Ephraim. 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


248 


44 Where am I to come from ? ” said I. 

44 How do I know where you are to come from ? ” 
said he. 44 You tell me where you have come 
from. You know better than I.” 

44 From the House of Learning,” said I. 

44 And where were you the whole day ? ” said he. 

44 Where could I be ? ” said I. 

44 How do I know ? ” said he. 44 You tell me. 
You know better than I.” 

44 At the House of Learning,” says I. 

44 What were you doing at the House of 
Learning ? ” said he. 

44 What should I be doing at the House of 
Learning ? ” said I. 

44 Do I know what you could be doing there ? ” 
said he. 

44 1 was learning,” said I. 

44 What were you learning ? ” said he. 

44 What should I learn ? ” said I. 

44 Do I know what you should learn ? ” said he. 

44 1 was learning 4 Gemarra ,’ ” said I. 

44 What 4 Gemarra ’ were you learning ? ” said 
he. 

44 What 4 Gemarra ’ should I learn ? ” said I. 

44 Do I know what 4 Gemarra ’ you should 
learn ? ” said he. 

44 1 learnt the 4 Gemarra 5 4 Shabos ,’ ” said I. 

At this Ephraim Log-of-wood burst out laughing 
in his rattling little laugh. And it geemed that 
my father could bear no more. He jumped up 


ON THE FIDDLE 249 

from his seat and delivered me two resounding 
fiery boxes on the ears. Stars flew before my 
eyes. My mother heard my shouts from the other 
room. She flew into us with a scream. 

44 Nahum ! The Lord be with you ! What are 
you doing ? A young man — a bridegroom- elect ! 
Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If 
her father gets to know of this — God forbid ! ” 

My mother was right. The girl’s father got to 
know the whole story. Ephraim Log־of־wood went 
off himself and told it to him. And in this way 
Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax- 
collector; for the two had always been at the 
point of sticking knives into one another. 

Next day I got back the marriage-contract and 
the presents which had been given to the bride- 
elect. And I was no longer a bridegroom-elect. 

This grieved my father so deeply that he fell 
into a very serious illness. He was bedridden for 
a long time. He would not let me come near him. 
He refused to look into my face. All my mother’s 
tears and arguments and explanations and her 
defence of me were of no use at all. 

44 The disgrace,” said my father, 44 the disgrace 
of it is worse than anything else.” 

44 May it turn out to be a real, true sacrifice for 
us all,” said my mother to him. 44 The Lord will 
have to send us another bride-elect. What can 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


250 


we do ? Shall we take our own lives ? Perhaps 
it is not his destiny to marry this girl.״ 

Amongst those who came to visit my father in 
his illness was Tchitchick the bandmaster. 

When my father saw him, he took off his little 
round cap, sat up in his bed, stretched out his 
hand to him, looked straight into his eyes and said : 
“ Oh, 4 Mr. Sergeant ! ’ 4 Mr. Sergeant ! 5 ״ 

He could not utter another sound, because he 
was smothered by his tears and his cough. . . . 

This was the first time in my life that I saw 
my father crying. His tears gripped hold of my 
heart, and chilled me to the very soul. 

I stood and looked out of the window, swallowing 
my tears in silence. At that moment, I was heartily 
sorry for all the mischief I had done. I cried within 
myself, from the very depths of my heart, beating 
my breast : 44 1 have sinned.” And within my- 

self, I vowed solemnly to myself that I would never, 
never anger my father again, and never, never 
cause him any pain. 

No more fiddle ! 


THIS NIGHT 

“ To MY DEAR Son, 

4 4 1 send you — 4 roubles, ’ and beg of you, my 
dear son, to do me the favour, and come home for 
the Passover Festival. It is a disgrace to me in my 
old age. We have one son, an only child, and we 
are not worthy to see him. Your mother also 
asks me to beg of you to be sure to come home for 
the Passover. And you must know that Busie 
is to be congratulated. She is now betrothed. 
And if the Lord wills it, she is going to be married 
on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. 

4 4 From me, 

44 Your Father.” 

This is the letter my father wrote to me. For 
the first time a sharp letter — for the first time in 
all those years since we had parted. And we had 
parted from one another, father and I, in silence, 
without quarrelling. I had acted in opposition to 
his wishes. I would not go his road, but my own 
road. I went abroad to study. ׳At first my father 
was angry. He said he would never forgive me. 
Later, he began to send me money. 

251 


252 JEWISH CHILDREN 

44 I send you — 4 roubles ,’ ” he used to write, 
“ and your mother sends you her heartiest 
greetings.” 

Short, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies 
to him were also short and dry : 

“I have received your letter with the — ‘ roubles .’ 
I thank you, and I send my mother my heartiest 
greetings.” 

Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one 
another. Who had time to realize where I found 
myself in the world of dreams in which I lived ? 
But now my father’s letter woke me up. Not so 
much his complaint that it was a shame I should 
have left him alone in his old age — that it was a 
disgrace for him that his only son should be away 
from him. I will confess it that this did not move 
me so much. Neither did my mother’s pleadings 
with me that I should have pity on her and come 
home for the Passover Festival. Nothing took 
such a strong hold of me as the last few lines of 
my father’s letter. 44 And you must know that 
Busie is to be congratulated.” 

Busie ! The same Busie who has no equal 
anywhere on earth, excepting in the 44 Song of 
Songs ” — the same Busie who is bound up with my 
life, whose childhood is interwoven closely with my 
childhood — the same Busie who always was to me 
the bewitched Queen’s Daughter of all my wonderful 
fairy tales — the most wonderful princess of my 
golden dreams — this same Busie is now betrothed, 


253 


THIS NIGHT 


is going to be married on the Sabbath after the 
Feast of Weeks ? Is it true that she is going 
to be married, and not to me, but to some one 
else ? 

Who is Busie — what is she ? Oh, do you not 
know who Busie is ? Have you forgotten ? Then 
I will tell you her biography all over again, briefly, 
and in the very same words I used when telling it 
you once on a time, years ago. 

I had an older brother, Benny. He was 
drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young 
widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was 
neglected ; the horses were sold ; the young widow 
married again and went away somewhere,* far ; and 
the child was brought home to our house. 

That child was Busie. 

And Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite 
of the “ Song of Songs.” Whenever I saw Busie 
I thought of the Shulamite of the “ Song of Songs.” 
And whenever I read the “ Song of Songs ” Busie’s 
image came up and stood before me. 

Her name is the short for Esther-Liba : Libusa : 
Busie. She grew up together with me. She called 
my father ‘ ‘ father,” and my mother “mother.” 
Everybody thought that we were sister and brother. 
And we grew up together as if we were sister and 
brother. And we loved one another as if we were 
sister and brother. 

Like a sister and a brother we played together, 


254 JEWISH CHILDREN 

and we hid in a corner — we two ; and I used to tell 
her the fairy tales I learnt at school — the tales 
which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who 
knew everything, even ‘Kaballa.’ I told her that 
by means of ‘ Kaballa ’ I could do wonderful tricks 
— draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. By 
means of * Kaballa ,’ I told her, I could manage that 
we two should rise up into the clouds, and even 
higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to 
hear me tell my stories ! There was only one 
story which Busie did not like me to tell — the story 
of the Queen’s Daughter, the princess who had 
been bewitched, carried off from under the wedding 
canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven 
years. And I said that I was flying off to set her 
free. . . . Busie loved to hear every tale excepting 
that one about the bewitched Queen’s Daughter 
whom I was flying off to set free. 

“You need not fly so far. Take my advice, 
you need not.” 

This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my 
face her beautiful, blue “ Song of Songs ” eyes. 

That is who and what Busie is. 

And now my father writes me that I must 
congratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be 
married on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. 
She is some one’s bride — some one else’s, not 
mine 1 

I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in 
answer to his. 


255 


THIS NIGHT 


“To MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER. 

44 1 have received your letter with the 
— 4 roubles .’ In a few days, as soon as I am ready, 
I will go home, in time for the first days of the 
Passover Festival — or perhaps for the latter days. 
But I will surely come home. I send my heartiest 
greetings to my mother. And to Busie I send my 
congratulations. I wish her joy and happiness. 

44 From me, 

44 Your Son.” 

It was a lie. I had nothing to get ready ; nor 
was there any need for me to wait a few days. 
The same day on which I received my father’s 
letter and answered it, I got on the train and 
flew home. I arrived home exactly on the day 
before the Festival, on a warm, bright Passover eve. 

I found the village exactly as I had left it, 
once on a time, years ago. It was not changed 
by a single hair. Not a detail of it was different. 
It was the same village. The people were the 
same. The Passover eve was the same, with all 
its noise and hurry and flurry and bustle. And 
out of doors it was also the same Passover eve as 
when I had been at home, years ago. 

There was only one thing missing — the “ Song 
of Songs.” No ; nothing of the “ Song of Songs ” 
existed any longer. It was not now as it had 
been, once on a time, years ago. Our yard was 
not any more King Solomon’s vineyard, of the 


256 JEWISH CHILDREN 

“ Song of Songs.” The wood and the logs and 
the boards that lay scattered around the house 
were no longer the cedars and the fir trees. The 
cat that was stretched out before the door, warming 
herself in the sun, was no more a young hart, or a 
roe, such as one comes upon in the “Song of Songs.” 
The hill on the other side of the synagogue was no 
more the Mountain of Lebanon. It was no more 
one of the Mountains of Spices. . . . The young 
women and girls who were standing out of doors, 
washing and scrubbing and making everything 
clean for the Passover — they were not any more the 
Daughters of Jerusalem of whom mention is made 
in the “ Song of Songs.” . . . What has become of 
my “ Song of Songs ” world that was, at one time, 
so fresh and clear and bright — the world that was 
as fragrant as though filled with spices ? 

I found my home exactly as I had left it, 
years before. It was not altered by a hair. It was 
not different in the least detail. My father, too, 
was the same. Only his silver-white beard had 
become a little more silvery. His broad white 
wrinkled forehead was now a little more wrinkled. 
This was probably because of his cares. . . . 
And my mother was the same as when I saw 
her last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now 
slightly sallow. And I imagined she had grown 
smaller, shorter and thinner. Perhaps I only 
imagined this because she was how slightly bent. 


257 


THIS NIGHT 


And her eyes were slightly enflamed, and had 
little puffy bags under them, as if they were 
swollen. Was it from weeping, perhaps ? . . . 

For what reason had my mother been weeping ? 
For whom ? Was it for me, her only son who had 
acted in opposition -to his father’s wishes ? Was 
it because I would not go the same road as my 
father, but took my own road, and went off to 
study, and did not come home for such a long 
time ? ... Or did my mother weep for Busie, 
because she was getting married on the Sabbath 
after the Feast of Weeks ? 

Ah, Busie ! She was not changed by so much as 
a hair. She was not different in the least detail. 
She had only grown up — grown up and also grown 
more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. 
She had grown up exactly as she had promised to 
grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and full of grace. 
Her eyes were the same blue 44 Song of Songs ” 
eyes, but more thoughtful than in the olden times. 
They were more thoughtful and more dreamy, 
more careworn and more beautiful 44 Song of 
Songs ” eyes than ever. And the smile on her 
lips was friendly, loving, homely and affectionate. 
She was quiet as a dove — quiet as a virgin. , 

When I looked at the Busie of to-day, I was 
reminded of the Busie of the past. I recalled to 
mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which 
my mother had made for her, at that time, for the 
Passover I remembered the new little shoes 


s 


258 JEWISH CHILDREN 

which my father had bought for her, at that time, 
for the Passover. And when I remembered the 
Busie of the past, there came back to me, without 
an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by 
phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten 
“ Song of Songs.” 

4 ‘ Thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks : thy hair 
is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. 

Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are 
even shorn, which come up from the washing : 
whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren 
among them. 

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy 
speech is comely : thy temples are like a piece 
of pomegranate within thy locks.” 

I look at Busie, and once again everything is 
as in the “ Song of Songs,” just as it was in the 
past, once on a time, years before. 

“ Busie, am I to congratulate you ? ” 

She does not hear me. But why does she 
lower her eyes ? And why have her cheeks 
turned scarlet ? No, I must bid her joy — I must ! 

“ I congratulate you, Busie.” 

“ May you live in happiness,” she replies. 

And that is all. I could ask her nothing. And 
to talk with her ? There was nowhere where I 
might do that. My father would not let me talk 
with her. My mother hindered me. Our relatives 
prevented it. The rest of the family, the friends, 


259 


THIS NIGHT 


neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into 
the house to welcome me, one coming and one 
going — they would not let me talk with Busie 
either. They all stood around me. They all 
examined me, as if I were a bear, or a curious 
creature from another world. Everybody wanted 
to see and hear me — to know how I was getting on, 
and what I was doing. They had not seen me for 
such a long time. 

44 Tell us something new. What have you 
seen ? What have you heard ? ” 

And I told them the news — all that I had seen, 
and all that I had heard. At the same time I was 
looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes. 
And I met her eyes — her big, deep, careworn, 
thoughtful, beautiful blue 44 Song of Songs ” eyes. 
But her eyes were dumb, as her lips were dumb, as 
she herself was dumb. Her eyes told me nothing 
— nothing at all. And there arose to my memory 
the words I had learnt in the past, the 44 Song of 
Songs ” sentence by sentence — 

44 A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse : 
a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.” 

And a storm arose within my brain, and a fire 
began to burn within my heart. This terrible fire 
did not rage against anybody, only against myself 
— against myself and against my dreams of the 
past — the foolish, boyish, golden dreams for the 
sake of which I had left my father and my mother. 


260 JEWISH CHILDREN 

Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie. 
Because of them I had sacrificed a great, great part 
of my life ; and because of them, and through them 
I had lost my happiness — lost it, lost it for ever ! 

Lost it for ever ? No, it cannot be — it cannot 
be ! Have I not come back■ — have I not returned 
in good time ? ... If only I could manage to 
talk with Busie, all alone with her ! If only I could 
get to say a few words to her. But how could I 
speak with her, all alone, the few words I longed 
to speak, when everybody was present — when the 
people were all crowding around me ? They were 
all examining me as if I were a bear, or a curious 
creature from another world. Everybody wanted 
to see and hear me — to know how I was getting on, 
and what I was doing. They had not seen me for 
such a long time ! 

More intently than any one else was my father 
listening to me. He had a Holy Book open in 
front of him, as always. His broad forehead was 
wrinkled up, as always. He was looking at me 
from over his silver spectacles, and was stroking 
the silver strands of his silvery- white beard, as 
always. And I imagined that he was looking at 
me with other eyes than he used to look. No, it 
was not the same look as always. He was re- 
proaching me. I felt that my father was offended 
with me. I had acted contrary to his wishes. I 
had refused to go his road, and had taken a road 
of my own choosing. . . . 


261 


THIS NIGHT 


My mother, too, was standing close beside me. 
She came out of the kitchen. She left all her 
work, the preparations for the Passover, and she 
was listening to me with tears in her eyes. Though 
her face was still smiling, she wiped her eyes in 
secret with the corners of her apron. She was 
listening to me attentively. She was staring right 
into my mouth ; and she was swallowing, yes, 
swallowing every word that I said. 

And Busie also stood over against me. Her 
hands were folded on her bosom. And she was 
listening to me just as the others were. Along 
with them, she was staring right into my mouth. 
I looked at Busie. I tried to read what was in her 
eyes ; but I could read nothing there, nothing at 
all, nothing at all. 

44 Tell more. Why have you grown silent ? ” 
my father asked me. 

44 Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like ? ” 
put in my mother hastily. 44 The child is tired. 
The child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him : 
4 Tell! Tell! Tell! And tell ! ’■״ 

The people began to go away by degrees. And 
we found ourselves alone, my father and my 
mother, Busie and I. My mother went off to the 
kitchen. In a few minutes she came back, carrying 
in her hand a beautiful Passover plate — a plate I 
knew well. It was surrounded by a design of big 
green fig leaves. 


262 JEWISH CHILDREN 

44 Perhaps you would like something to eat, 
Shemak ? It is a long time to wait until the 4 Seder. ’ ’ ’ 

That is what my mother said to me, and with 
so much affection, so much loyalty and so much 
passionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with 
silent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork — the 
well-known Passover knife and fork. Everything 
was familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor 
different by a hair. It was the same plate with the 
big green fig leaves ; the same knive and fork with 
the white bone handles. The same delicious odour 
of melted goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen ; 
and the fresh Passover cake had the same Garden- 
of-Eden taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. 
Nothing was different in the least detail. 

Only, in the olden times, we ate together on the 
Passover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I 
remember that we ate off the same beautiful Pass- 
over plate that was surrounded by a design of big 
green fig leaves. And, at that time, my mother 
gave us nuts. I remember how she filled our 
pockets with nuts. And, at that time, we took 
hold of one another’s hands, Busie and I. And I 
remember that we let ourselves go, in the open. 
We flew like eagles. I ran ; she ran after me. I 
leaped over the logs of wood ; she leaped after me. 
I was up ; she was up. I was down ; she was down. 

44 Shemak ! How long are we going to run, 
Shemak ? ” 

So said Busie to me. And I answered her in 


263 


THIS NIGHT 


the words of the 44 Song of Songs ” : 44 Until the 
day break, and the shadows flee away.” 

This, was once on a time, years ago. Now 
Busie is grown up. She is big. And I also am grown 
up, I also am big. Busie is betrothed. She is 
betrothed to some one — to some one else, and not 
to me. . . . And I want to be alone with Busie. 
I want* to speak a few words with her. I want to 
hear her voice. I want to say to her, in the words 
of the 44 Song of Songs ” : 44 Let me see thy counte- 
nance, let me hear thy voice. 

And I imagine that her eyes are answering my 
unspoken words, also in the words of the 44 Song 
of Songs.” 44 Come, my beloved, let us go forth 
into the fields ; let us lodge in the villages. 

Let us get up early to the vineyards ; let us see 
if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, 
and the pomegranates bud forth : there will I give 
thee my loves.” 

I snatched a glimpse through the window to 
see what was going on out of doors. Ah, how 
lovely it was ! How beautiful ! How fragrant 
of the Passover ! How like the 44 Song of Songs ” ! 
It was a sin to be indoors. Soon the day would 
be at an end. Lower and lower sank the sun, 
painting the sky the colour of guinea-gold. The 
gold was reflected in Busie’s eyes. They were 
bathed in gold. Soon, soon, the day would be 
dead. And I would have no time to say a single 


264 JEWISH CHILDREN 

word to Busie. The whole day was spent in talking 
idly with my father and my mother, my relatives 
and friends, telling them of all that I had heard, and 
all that I had seen. I jumped up, and went over 
to the window. I looked out of it. As I was passing 
her, I said quickly to Busie : 

“ Perhaps we should go out for a while ? It 
is so long since I was at home. I want to see every- 
thing. I want to have a look at the village.” 

Can you tell me what was the matter with 
Busie ? Her cheeks were at once enflamed. They 
burned with a great fire. She was as red as the 
sun that was going down in the west. She threw 
a glance at my father. I imagined she wanted to 
hear what my father would say. And my father 
looked at my mother, over his silver spectacles. 
He stroked the silver strands of his silvery-white 
beard, and said casually, to no one in particular : 

“ The sun is setting. It’s time to put on our 
Festival garments, and to go into the synagogue 
to pray. It is time to light the Festival candles. 
What do you say ? ” 

No ! It seemed that I was not going to get the 
chance of saying anything to Busie that day. We 
went off to change our garments. My mother had 
finished her work. She had put on her new silk 
Passover gown. Her white hands gleamed. No 
one has such beautiful white hands as my mother. 
Soon she will make the blessing over the Festival 


265 


THIS NIGHT 


candles. She will cover her eyes with her snow- 
white hands and weep silently, as she used to do, 
once on a time, years ago. The last, lingering 
rays of the setting sun will play on her beautiful, 
transparent white hands. No one has such beauti- 
ful, white, transparent hands as my mother. 

But what is the matter with Busie ? The light 
has gone out of her face just as it is going out of 
the sun that is slowly setting in the west, and as it 
is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But 
she is beautiful, and graceful as never before. 
And there is a deep sadness in her beautiful blue 
“ Song of Songs ” eyes. They are very thoughtful, 
are Busie’s eyes. 

What is Busie thinking of now ? Of the loving 
guest for whom she had waited, and who had come 
flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long 
absence from home ? ... Or is she thinking of 
her mother, who married again, and went off 
somewhere far, and who forgot that she had a 
daughter whose name was Busie ? ... Or is 
Busie now thinking of her betrothed, her affianced 
husband whom, probably, my father and mother 
were compelling her to marry against her own 
inclinations ? ... Or is she thinking of her 
marriage that is going to take place on the Sabbath 
after the Feast of Weeks, to a man she does not 
know, and does not understand ? Who is he, and 
what is he ? . . . Or, perhaps, on the contrary, 
I am mistaken ? Perhaps she is counting the days 


266 JEWISH CHILDREN 

from the Passover to the Feast of Weeks, until 
the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, because the 
man she is going to marry on that day is her chosen, 
her dearest, her beloved ? He will lead her under 
the wedding canopy. To him she will give all her 
heart, and all her love. And to me ? Alas ! Woe 
is me ! To me she is no more than a sister. She 
always was to me a sister, and always will be. . . . 
And I imagine that she is looking at me with pity 
and with regret, and that she is saying to me, as she 
said to me, once on a time, years ago, in the words 
of the “ Song of Songs ” : 

“ O that thou wert as my brother.״ 

“ Why are you not my brother ? ” 

What answer can I make her to these unspoken 
words ? I know what I should like to say to her. 
Only let me get the chance to say a few words to 
her, no more than a few. 

No ! I shall not be able to speak a single word 
with Busie this day — nor even half a word. Now 
she is rising from her chair. She is going with light, 
soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the 
candles ready for my mother, fixing them into the 
silver candlesticks. How well I know these silver 
candlesticks ! They played a big part in my golden, 
boyish dreams of the bewitched Queen’s Daughter 
whom I was going to rescue from the palace of 
crystal. The golden dreams, and the silver candle- 
sticks, and the Sabbath candles, and my mother’s 
beautiful, white, transparent hands, and Busie’s 


267 


THIS NIGHT 


beautiful blue 44 Song of Songs ” eyes, and the 
last rays of the sun that is going down in the west — 
are they not all one and the same, bound together 
and interwoven for ever ? . . . 

44 Ta ! ” exclaimed my father, looking out of 
the window, and winking to me that it was h i§& 
time to change and go into the synagogue to pray. 

And we changed our garments, my father and I, 
and we went into the synagogue to say our prayers. 

Our synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not 
changed either, not by so much as a hair. Not a 
single detail was different. Only the walls had 
become a little blacker ; the reader’s desk was older ; 
the curtain before the Holy Ark had drooped lower ; 
and the Holy Ark itself had lost its polish, its newness. 

Once on a time, our synagogue had appeared in 
my eyes like a small copy of King Solomon’s Temple. 
Now the small temple was leaning slightly to one 
side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, 
and the holy splendour of our little old synagogue ? 
Where now are the angels which used to flutter 
about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark 
on Friday evenings, when we were reciting the 
prayers in^welcome of the Sabbath, and on Festival 
evenings when we were reciting the beautiful 
Festival prayers ? 

And the members of the congregation were also 
very little changed. They were only grown a little 
older. Black beards were now grey. Straight 


268 JEWISH CHILDREN 

shoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday 
coats that I knew so well were more threadbare, 
shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them 
and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as 
beautifully as in the olden times, years ago. Only 
to-day his voice is a little husky, and a new tone is 
to be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He 
weeps rather than sings the words. He mourns 
rather than prays. And our rabbi ? The old 
rabbi ? He has not changed at all. He was like 
the fallen snow when I saw him last, and to-day is 
like the fallen snow. He is different only in one 
trifling respect. His hands are trembling. And 
the rest of his body is also trembling, from old 
age, I should imagine. Asreal the Beadle — a Jew 
who had never had the least sign of a beard — would 
have been exactly the same man as once on a time, 
years before, if it were not for his teeth. He has 
lost every single tooth he possessed ; and with his 
fallen-in cheeks, he now looks much more like a 
woman than a man. But for all that, he can still 
bang on the desk with his open hand. True, it 
is not the same bang as once on a time. Years ago, 
one was almost deafened by the noise of Asreal’s 
hand coming down on the desk. To-day, it is not 
like that at all. It seems that he has not*any longer 
the strength he used to have. He was once a giant 
of a man. 

Once on a time, years ago, I wa£ happy in the 
little old synagogue ; I remember that I felt happy 


269 


THIS NIGHT 


without an end — without a limit ! Here, in the little 
s y na g°gue, years ago, my childish soul swept 
about with the angels I imagined were flying around 
the carved wings of the Holy Ark. Here, in the 
little synagogue, once on a time, with my father 
and all the other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And 
it gave me great pleasure, great satisfaction. 

And now, here I am again in the same old syna- 
gogue, praying with the same old congregation, 
just as once on a time, years ago. I hear the same 
Cantor singing the same melodies as before. And 
I am praying along with the congregation. But 
my thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep 
turning over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one 
page after the other. And — I am not to blame for 
it — ■I come upon the pages on which are printed the 
44 Song of Songs.” And I read : 

44 Behold, thou art fair, my love ; behold, thou 
are fair ; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks.” 

I should like to pray with the congregation, 
as they are praying, and as I used to pray, once 
on a time. But the words will not rise to my 
lips. I turn over the pages of my prayer-book, 
one after the other, and — I am not to blame for 
it — again I turn up the 44 Song of Songs,” at the 
fifth chapter. 

44 1 am come into my garden, my sister, my 
spouse.” 

And again : 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


270 


“ I have gathered my myrrh with my spice ; 
I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I 
have drunk my wine with my milk.” 

But what am I talking about ? What am I 
saying ? The garden is not mine. I shall not 
gather any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall 
eat no honey, and drink no wine. The garden is 
not my garden. Busie is not my betrothed. Busie 
is betrothed to some one else — to some one else, and 
not to me. . . . And there rages within me a 
hellish fire. Not against Busie. Not against any- 
body at all. No ; only against myself alone. Surely ! 
How could I have stayed away from Busie for such 
a long time ? How could I have allowed it — that 
Busie should be taken away from me, and given to 
some one else ? Had she not written many letters 
to me, often, and given me to understand that she 
hoped to see me shortly ? . . . Had I not myself 
promised to come home, and then put off going, 
from one Festival to another, so many times until, 
at last, Busie gave up writing to me ? 

“ Good * Yom-Tov 5 / This is my son ! ” 

That was how my father introduced me to the 
men of the congregation at the synagogue, after 
prayers. They examined me on all sides. They 
greeted me with, “ Peace be unto you ! ” and ac- 
cepted my greeting, in return, “ Unto you be 
peace ! ” as if it were no more than their due, 

“ This is my son. . 


271 


THIS NIGHT 


“ That is your son ? Here is a 4 Peace be unto 
you ! ’ ” 

In my father’s words, 44 This is my son,” there 
were many shades of feeling, many meanings — joy, 
and happiness, and reproach. One might interpret 
the words as one liked. One might argue that he 
meant to say : 

44 What do you think ? This is really my son.” 

Or one might argue that he meant to say : 

44 Just imagine it — this is my son ! ” 

I could feel for my father. He was deeply 
hurt. I had opposed his wishes. I had not gone 
his road, but had taken a road of my own. And I 
had caused him to grow old before his time. No ; 
he had not forgiven me yet. He did not tell me 
this. But his manner saved him the trouble of 
explaining himself. I felt that he had not forgiven 
me yet. His eyes told me everything. They looked 
at me reproachfully from over his silver-rimmed 
spectacles, right into my heart. His soft sigh 
told me that he had not forgiven me yet — the sigh 
which tore itself, from time to time, out of his weak 
old breast. . . . 

We walked home from the synagogue together, 
in silence. We got home later than any one else. 
The night had already spread her wings over the 
heavens. Her shadow was slowly lowering itself 
over the earth. A silent, warm, holy Passover 
night it was — a night full of secrets and mysteries, 
full of wonder and beauty. The holiness of this 


272 JEWISH CHILDREN 

night could be felt in the air. It descended slowly 
from the dark blue sky. . . . The stars whispered 
together in the mysterious voices of the night. 
And on all sides of us, from the little Jewish houses 
came the words of the 6 Haggadah ’ : 44 We went 
forth from Egypt on this night.” 

With hasty, hasty steps I went towards home, 
on this night And my father barely managed 
to keep up with me. He followed after me like a 
shadow. 

44 Why are you flying ? ” he asked of me, 
scarcely managing to catch his breath. 

Ah, father, father ! Do you not know that I 
have been compared with 44 a roe or a young hart 
upon the mountains of spices ” ? . . . The time 
is long for me, father, too long. The way is long 
for me, father, too long. When Busie is betrothed 
to some one — to some one else and not to me, the 
hours and the roads are too long for me. ... I am 
compared with 44 a roe or a young hart upon the 
mountains of spices.” 

That is what I wanted to say to my father, in 
the words of the 44 Song of Songs.” I did 
not feel the ground under my feet. I went 
towards home with hasty, hasty steps, on this 
night. My father barely managed to keep up with 
me. He followed after me like a shadow. 

With the same 44 Good * Yom-Tyv ’ ” which we 
had said on coming in from the synagogue on such a 


273 


THIS NIGHT 


night as this, years ago, we entered the house on 
this night, my father and I. 

With the same 44 Good * Yom-Tov ,’ good year,” 
with which my mother and Busie used to welcome 
us, on such a night as this, once on a time, years 
ago, they again welcomed us on this night, my 
father and me. 

My mother, the Queen of the evening, was 
dressed in her royal robes of silk; and the Queen’s 
Daughter, Busie, was dressed in her snow-white 
frock. They made the same picture which they had 
made, once on a time, years ago. They were not 
altered by as much as a hair. They were not 
different in a single detail. 

As it had been years ago, so it was now. On this 
night, the house was full of grace. A peculiar 
beauty — a holy, festive, majestic loveliness de- 
scended upon our house. A holy, festive glamour 
hung about our house on this night. The white 
table-cloth was like driven snow. And everything 
which was on the table gleamed and glistened. 
My mother’s Festival candles shone out of the silver 
candlesticks. The Passover wine greeted us from 
out the sparkling bottles. Ah, how pure, how 
simple the Passover cakes looked, peeping inno- 
cently from under their beautiful cover ! How 
sweetly the horse-radish smiled to me ! And how 
pleasant was the 44 mortar ” — the mixture of 
crushed nuts and apples and wine which symbo- 
lized the mortar out of which the Israelites made 

T 


274 JEWISH CHILDREN 

bricks in Egypt, when they were slaves ! And 
even the dish of salt-water was good to look upon. 

Proudly and haughtily stood the throne on 
which my father, the King of the night, was going 
to recline. A glory shone forth from my mother’s 
countenance, such as I always saw shining forth 
from it on such a night. And the Queen’s Daughter, 
Busie, was entirely, from her head to her heels, as 
if she really belonged to the 44 Song of Songs.” 
No ! What am I saying ? She was the 44 Song 
of Songs ” itself. 

The only pity was that the King’s son was put 
sitting so far away from the Queen’s Daughter. I 
remember that they once sat at the Passover 
ceremony in a different position. They were 
together, once on a time, years ago. One beside the 
other they sat. . . . 

I remember that the King’s Son asked his 
father 44 The Four Questions ” And I remember 
that the Queen’s Daughter stole from his Majesty 
the 4 Afikomen ’ — the pieces of Passover cake he 
had hidden away to make the special blessing over. 
And I ? What had I done then ? How much 
did we laugh at that time ! I remember that, 
once on a time, years ago, when the 4 Seder ’ was 
ended, and the King had taken off his white robes, 
and the Queen had taken off her royal garment of 
silk, we two, Busie and I, sat together in a corner 
playing with the nuts which my mother had given 
us. And there, in the corner, I told Busie a story 


275 


THIS NIGHT 


— one of the fairy tales I had learnt at school from 
my comrade Sheika, who knew everything in the 
world. It was the story of the beautiful Queen’s 
Daughter who had been taken from under the 
wedding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace 
of crystal for seven years on end, and who was 
waiting for some one to raise himself up into the 
air by pronouncing the Holy Name, flying above 
the clouds, across hills, and over valleys, over 
rivers, and across deserts, to release her, to set her 
free. 

But all this happened once on a time, years ago. 
Now the Queen’s Daughter is grown up. She is 
big. And the King’s Son is grown up. He is big. 
And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly, 
that we cannot even see one another. Imagine 
it to yourself ! On the right of his majesty sat 
the King’s Son. On the left of her majesty sat 
the Queen’s Daughter ! . . . And we recited the 
4 Haggadah ,’ my father and I, at the top of our 
voices, as once on a time, years ago, page after 
page, and in the same sing-song as of old. And my 
mother and Busie repeated the words after us, 
softly, page after page, until we came to the “ Song 
of Songs.” I recited the 44 Song of Songs ” to- 
gether with my father, as once on a time, years 
ago, in the same melody as of old, passage after 
passage. And my mother and Busie repeated the 
words after us, softly, passage after passage, until 


276 JEWISH CHILDREN 

the King of the night, tired out, after the long 
Passover ceremony, and somewhat dulled by the 
four cups of raisin wine, began to doze off by 
degrees. He nodded for a few minutes, woke up, 
and went on singing the “ Song of Songs.״ He 
began in a loud voice : 

“ Many waters cannot quench love.” . . . 

And I caught him up, in the same strain : 

“ Neither can floods drown it.״ 

The recital grew softer and softer with us both, 
as the night wore on, until at last his majesty fell 
asleep in real earnest. The_ Queen touched him 
on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with 
a sweet, affectionate gentleness, and told him he 
should go to bed. In the meantime, Busie and I 
got the chance of saying a few words to one another. 
I got up from my place and went over close beside 
her. And we stood opposite one another for the 
first time, closely, on this night. I pointed out 
to her how rarely beautiful the night was. 

“ On such a night,״ I said to her, “it is good 
to go walking.״ 

She understood me, and answered me, with a 
half־smile by asking : 

“ On such a night ? ” . . . 

And I imagined that she was laughing at me. 
That was how she used to laugh at me, once on a 
time, years ago. ... I was annoyed. I said to her : 

“ Busie, we have something tq׳ say to one 
another — we have much to talk about.״ 


277 


THIS NIGHT 


4 4 Much to talk about ? ” she replied, echoing my 
words. 

And again I imagined that she was laughing at 
me. . . .1 put in quickly : 

44 Perhaps I am mistaken ? Maybe I have 
nothing at all to say to you now ? ” 

These words were uttered with so much bitterness 
that Busie ceased from smiling, and her face grew 
serious. 

44 To-morrow,” she said to me, 44 to-morrow we 
will talk.” . . . 

And my eyes grew bright. Everything about 
me was bright and good and joyful. To-morrow ! 
To-morrow we will talk ! To-morrow ! To- 
morrow ! . . . 

I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fra- 
grance of her hair, the fragrance of her clothes — 
the same familiar fragrance of her. And there 
came up to my mind the words of the 44 Song of 
Songs ” : 

44 Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honey- 
comb : honey and milk are under thy tongue ; 
and the smell of thy garments is like the smell 
of Lebanon.” . . . 

And all our speech this night was the same — 
without words. We spoke together with our 
eyes — with our eyes. 

44 Busie, good night,” I said to her softly. 

It was hard for me to go away from her. The 


278 JEWISH CHILDREN 

one God in Heaven knew the truth — how hard it 
was. 

4 4 Good-night,” Busie made answer. 

She did not stir from the spot. She looked at 
me, deeply perplexed, out of her beautiful, blue, 
44 Song of Songs ” eyes. 

I said 44 good night ” to her again. And she 
again said 44 good night ” to me. My mother came 
in and led me off to bed. When we were in my 
room, my mother smoothed out for me, with her 
beautiful, snow-white hands, the white cover of 
my bed. And her lips murmured : 

44 Sleep well, my child, sleep well.” 

Into these few words she poured a whole ocean 
of tender love — the love which had been pent up 
in her breast the long time I had been away from 
her. I was ready to fall down before her, and kiss 
her beautiful white hands. 

44 Good night,” I murmured softly to her. 

And I was left alone — all alone, on this night. 

I was all alone on this night — all alone on this 
silent, soft, warm, early spring night. 

I opened my window and looked out into the 
open, at the dark blue night sky, and at the shim- 
mering stars that were like brilliants. And I 
asked myself : 

44 Is it then true ? Is it then true ? . . . 

Is it then true that I have lost my happiness — 
lost my happiness for ever ? 


279 


THIS NIGHT 


Is it then true that with my own hands I took 
and burnt my wonderful dream-palace, and let go 
from me the divine Queen’s Daughter whom, I 
had myself bewitched, once on a time, years ago ? 
Is it then so ? Is it so ? Maybe it is not so ? 
Perhaps I have come in time ? 4 1 am come into 

my garden, my sister, my spouse.’ ”... 

I sat at the open window for a long time on 
this night. And I exchanged whispered secrets with 
the silent, soft, warm early spring night that was 
full — strangely full — of secrets and mysteries. . . . 

On this night, I made a discovery — 

That I loved Busie with that holy, burning love 
which is so wonderfully described in our 44 Song 
of Songs.” Big fiery letters seemed to carve them- 
selves out before my eyes. They formed themselves 
into the words which I had only just recited, my 
father and I — the words of the 44 Song of Songs.” 
I read the carved words, letter by letter. 

44 Love is strong as death ; jealousy is cruel as 
the grave : the coals thereof are coals of fire, 
which hath a most vehement flame.” 

On this night, I sat down at my open window, 
and I asked of the night which was full of secrets 
and mysteries, that she should tell me this secret : 

44 Is it true that I have lost Busie for ever ? 
Is it then true ? ” . . . 

But she is silent— this night of secrets and 
mysteries. And the secret must remain a secret 
for me — until the morrow. 


280 JEWISH CHILDREN 

44 To-morrow,” Busie had said to me, “ we will 
talk.” 

Ah ! To-morrow we will talk ! . . . 

Only let the night go by — only let it vanish, 
this night ! 

This night ! This night ! 


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PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 





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